


Out of Character

by Khirsah



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Young Avengers (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, LARPing, M/M, Role-Playing Game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2020-02-09 12:37:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 29,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18638260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khirsah/pseuds/Khirsah
Summary: Tommy slowly straightened, eyes locked on Billy—going wider and wider and wider the redder Billy’s cheeks flushed. “Holy fucking shit,” he said. “I was just screwing with you, but, Billy. Are you telling me all this,” a single gesture took in the costume, the foam daggers and colored bundles of bird seed that represented his spells, “is actually getting youlaid?”OR:Billy and Teddy barely know each other, but their LARP alter-egos, Wiccan and Hulkling, finally confessed their love last session. Now it's time to come face-to-face again...but is it all real, or is it just In-Character?





	1. Billy

“So let me see if I got this straight,” Tommy said in that amused, borderline gleeful tone that never failed to scream: _Gird your loins, Billy Kaplan, because I’m taking a swing at every last thing you hold dear._ “A couple times a year, you and all your nerd friends—”

“For the record,” Billy interrupted, looking up from his half-packed bag, “I’m already protesting your interpretation.”

“—gather together in a series of cabins upstate for a long weekend, where you dress up like Medieval Times rejects—”

“I think you mean _assume carefully constructed personas_.”

“—wave around stupid foam swords—”

“Some of us use magic instead.”

“—and fight in epic lame battles. Except you’re not _actually fighting_ ,” Tommy added, flopping down on Billy’s bed with an aggrieved sigh. He poked his way through the pile of clothes still waiting to be carefully folded and packed away. “Because at least if you were _actually fighting_ , there’d be a point to all of this.”

Billy shot him a flat look. “I question your priorities,” he said, leaning over to snatch the tattered red cape out of his twin brother’s hands.

“And that’s not _even_ getting into what I’m judging by all this spandex must be the weird sex stuff,” Tommy said. “Which is creepy as hell even for _you_ , B.”

He had to pause at that, cape still spilling out of his hands, cheeks flushing almost as red. The rest of it, Tommy could mock as much as he wanted. He could make fun of the lavish costumes, the rules, and ‘magic’ and swords and battles and drama of it all, but _Teddy_ …

Well.

Teddy was a whole different, whole new, whole weirdly complicated thing; Billy wasn’t even sure he had the words to define it for himself, much less his obnoxious twin brother. “It’s,” he tried, stammering like an idiot—giving himself away. “I mean, I’m not— _We’re_ not—”

Tommy slowly straightened, eyes locked on Billy—going wider and wider and wider the redder Billy’s cheeks flushed. “Holy fucking shit,” he said. “I was just fucking with you, but, Billy. Are you telling me all this,” a single gesture took in the costume, the foam daggers and colored bundles of bird seed that represented his spells, “is _actually_ getting you _laid_?”

“No!” Billy sputtered, even as his stomach twisted up into anxious knots, because…because _yes_ , sort of. But not really. But maybe. But _argh_.

“ARGH!” he moaned, covering his face with Wiccan’s tattered cape, hating the fact that he was practically immolating from the inside out at just the _thought_ of Hulkling. That golden hair. The deep green skin with its delicate swirls across the bare shoulders and arms, like iridescent scales. The broad chest and black leather and huge claymore and and and—

Tommy prodded him _hard_ in the stomach. “Start talking,” he said. “I want to know _everything_. I can’t believe you have a boyfriend at nerd camp and never even told me!”

“It’s not like that,” Billy protested, voice muffled. It really, really wasn’t like that, and it was a bad idea to let his lizard brain think of Hulkling—Teddy—that way. Bad and dangerous and really…addictive. He dropped his hands with a blustery breath, fighting not to flush harder at Tommy’s flat look. “It’s really not. Teddy’s not my boyfriend.”

“Oh _Teddy_ is it?” Tommy said, brows dancing.

“…but Hulkling sort of is.”

That had Tommy’s expression morphing into a frown. “Wait,” he said. “Hulkling? What?”

Fuck, this was so stupidly complicated. Billy threw down his cape (then paused and picked it up again, carefully folding it with all the due reverence it deserved before packing it away) and flopped onto the bed on the opposite side of his small rollerboard. “Look,” he said. “Here’s how it works. Every PC comes into the game with a—”

“Wait,” Tommy said, holding up a hand. “I thought this was live-action roleplay shit? But you’ve got computers?”

…really stupidly complicated. “No, sorry, no—that’s a game term. PC means Player Character. Like…have you ever played Dungeons and Dragons?”

Tommy shot him a flatly unamused look.

“Okay. How about a Bioware game? An Obsidian game? A—”

“You can pretty much assume the answer is always going to range from _no_ to _fuck no_ ,” Tommy said. “So why don’t we skip the analogies and go straight to how you’re kind of but not really doing the do with some weirdo named _Hulkling_.”

He actually bristled at that, instinctively wanting to come to Hulkling’s defense. Because Hulkling was the bravest and the _kindest_ and the best of all of them, and there was no way their party would have made it through half the shit it had without him. He wasn’t just the tank: he was the heart and soul of their team, and Tommy had _no right_ —

“This may all seem like a stupid game to you,” Billy said hotly, “but it’s important to us. We’ve sunk a lot of our time and energy and and and _souls_ into this. I’ve been playing Wiccan for almost four years now, and he’s just as much a part of me as anything. He’s my _character_ ,” he continued, before Tommy could ask. “My _Player Character_. I created him, and I dreamed up his backstory, and I cobbled together his costume, and I make him come to life a few weekends a year. When I’m out there, wearing this,” Billy gestured to the gear half-packed away: the belt with its many leather pouches, the silver diadem, the shoulderguards and demi-gauntlets with their gleaming faux onyx…hell, even the fucking _tights_ , “I’m not me. I’m _him_ , Wiccan. A level thirteen sorcerer who has _seen some shit_ and lived to tell the tale. And for that long weekend, I’m happy to live in his skin for a while.”

Tommy was silent for what felt like forever, studying him. He still looked dubious, but the mockery had faded (at least a little) into more honest curiosity. “All right,” he said slowly. “So you’re Wiccan, a…sorcerer? And Hulkling is…?”

Billy cleared his throat and looked down again. He hated that his traitor skin seemed determined to flush every time that name was mentioned. “Hulkling’s another PC. Uh, Player Character. He’s played by this kid named Teddy, though that’s really all I know about him.” And he only knew _that_ much because Kate was his best friend and knew how to twist some arms when she had to. “You’re strongly encouraged to leave all the player business behind you when you step on the field. It helps with immersion.”

“Uh-huh,” Tommy said, eyeballing him.

“He plays a level thirteen half-orc barbarian-paladin cross-class, and he has _the most_ beautifully complicated backstory I’ve ever heard and he’s been the heart of our party for a few years now and last session he and Wiccan _finally_ admitted that they had feelings for each other, which had been slow-burning for _ever_ and I don’t freaking know what to do about it now that I finally get to see him again!”

The words, once started, all came out of him in a headlong rush. Billy fell back against the mattress with a muffled groan, flinging one arm up to cover his eyes. It was all such a mess inside his head and his heart, and while it felt good (incredible; indescribable) to _finally_ say the words out loud, it also was enough to drive him crazy.

Because the rules their DM set up explicitly forbade discussing mun life during game-time, but they _also_ forbade discussing game details during real time, which meant that even though he and Kate hung out just about every weekend, they were freaking _honor-bound_ not to say anything about the campaign. Meeting her for coffee every Saturday, trying to telegraph his hope and excitement and burning dread _for fucking months_ had just about killed him.

This was the first time he’d gotten the words out in anything more than tragic journal entries and epically bad poetry, and it felt like lancing a wound that had gone to rot. The release of pressure was just incredible…and horribly messy.

“…so let me see if I get this straight,” Tommy said. He shifted, the mattress moving beneath him with a creak. “You play this sorcerer kid—Wiccan. Wiccan and this…orc…”

“Half-orc barbarian-paladin cross-class,” Billy offered, voice muffled by his arm.

“Right,” Tommy said. “That. The two of you have been buds in this game for a long time now, but there’s been sexual, or romantic, or whatever, tension boiling. And finally, last game, you both admitted that you were crazy hot for each other.”

Billy dropped his arm, staring wistfully at his brother. “He said he loved me,” he admitted, voice so low it was almost a whisper.

Tommy shook his head. “That’s… Wow, Billy. That’s a lot. And…did you…?”

He couldn’t answer that; all Billy could do was nod.

“Shit. Okay. So you two confessed your big gay love for each other,” Tommy twisted his fingers through silver hair, trying to spin the serious moment back into a joke, “and everything was great, and then you packed it in for the weekend and came home and…what?”

“ _Nothing!_ ” Billy all but moaned. He sat up again, too restless to keep still for more than a few minutes at a time. “I don’t know who he is or where he lives or _anything_ about him. Teddy-him,” he clarified. “I know just about everything about Hulkling-him, and he’s _wonderful._ ”

Tommy sighed. “Sometimes I can’t believe we’re actually related,” he said. “So what are you going to do about it? You’ve got your chance coming up,” he added at Billy’s blank look. “You’re packing up and heading back to nerd camp to see _Teddy_. Hulkling. Whatever. So what’s your plan?”

Billy flung out a helpless hand, trying to encompass all the tumultuous emotions running riot within his skinny chest. There were a thousand and one things he _wanted_ to do. He wanted to go tearing upstate and fling himself off the bus to find Teddy. He wanted to catch his eye—his attention—before play officially began Friday evening. He wanted to talk, to ask him if maybe there wasn’t something more going on…if maybe it went beyond Wiccan-and-Hulkling’s epic continent-spanning love.

(A love that bards _literally composed ballads about_ , thank you very much.)

…and yet at the same time, he wanted to curl up under the safety of his trademark tattered red cloak and never come out again.

“I don’t know,” he had to admit after a long minute, feeling excited and dejected, hopeful and hopeless. What if Teddy was just that good at playing a character? What if he didn’t feel anything for Billy at all?

What if it all really was just a game?

Tommy looked around at the ruin of Billy’s room, with his half-packed bag and his carefully laid out diadem and tights and color-coded bags of “spells”. He flicked his gaze up to the posters that lined the walls and the laptop that was often Billy’s only connection to the world—to friends—to a life.

Then he sighed and stood, shaking his head down at his twin. “Well, you’d better come up with something on the way up there,” he said, effortlessly sidestepping Billy’s half-hearted kick. “Because I am _not_ going to spend the next however many months between this LARP and the next hearing you moan about some _orc’s_ nice ass.”

“I hate you,” Billy muttered. “You’re the worst brother.”

“I’m the best brother,” Tommy sing-songed back. “You know why?” When Billy refused to rise to his bait—refused to _ask_ —he kicked at Billy’s foot for his reluctantly undivided attention. “I’m going to teach you how to have some _game._ ”

That, Billy decided, sounded like the worst idea imaginable. But since he was literally drowning in angst and indecision—and since he’d spent nearly _four years_ slowly chipping away at his complicated feelings for his gorgeous traveling companion with nothing to show for it in the real world—he figured, well. Hey. Anything was worth a shot once, right?

“Okay,” he said slowly, sitting up. He eyeballed his twin, who was looking too smug for his own good. “So what exactly did you have in mind?”

“Well, we don’t exactly have time for the master class,” Tommy said. “But shove over and we can go over some tips tonight. _After_ you email your, uh, head nerd or whatever.”

Billy gave him a flat look. “Game master,” he said.

“Sure,” Tommy said with a flick of his fingers. “Fine. After you email _that_ guy.”

He could feel the suspicion building slow and steady within him—a rising tide of dread filling his chest as he studied his brother’s lopsided smirk. Oh. Oh hell. He knew that look. “And why,” Billy said, hoping he was wrong even as he saw the crisis coming from a mile away, “would I want to do _that_?”

Sure enough, Tommy’s grin widened, catlike and promising seven kinds of trouble. “Because your crew just got a new player. PC. _Whatever_. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to have to do it right.” Then he paused and tilted his head, silver-blond bangs swinging into his eyes. “Got another pair of tights I can borrow?”


	2. Tommy

**To:** srogers@gmail.com

 **From:** wiccawiccawack@gmail.com

 **Subject:** Last-minute drop-in ok??

Hey, so, I know it’s the 11th hour and you’re probably up to your eyeballs in planning, but my brother inexplicably wants to come along this weekend. Is that possible?

You can say no if you want.

Seriously. Say no. It’s fine.

**

 **To:** wiccawiccawack@gmail.com

 **From:** srogers@gmail.com

 **Subject:** RE: Last-minute drop-in ok??

It’d be a squeeze getting a new lower-level character rolled in this late. Considering the main storyline, he’d be at a massive disadvantage. We didn’t really plan for anything below an 8.

I hate to turn away family, though.

How about this: if your brother’s okay with splitting his time between monster camp and the less intense encounters, we’ll allow it. Thor’s come down with something again, so he had to bow out, and we’re an NPC short. If he picks up the slack, he can fold his monster camp experience into his PC.

**

 **To:** srogers@gmail.com

 **From:** wiccawiccawack@gmail.com

 **Subject:** RE: RE: Last-minute drop-in ok??

Oh wow, I didn’t think you’d say yes. You’re the best DM ever.

I’ll teach him the basic rules of monster camp on the train ride up. See you tomorrow!

**

“This is stupid,” Tommy said, holding the yellow goggles in his hands and doing his best not to glare down his twerpy brother.

Billy just grinned smugly back at him because, well, twerp. “It’s not my fault we had to scrape your character together from Village discount bins,” he said, crossing his arms and looking happier than he had in months. It wasn’t just the chance to take a swipe at him either, Tommy was beginning to realize. Sure, Billy was probably enjoying this (rare!) victory at their enternal game of one-upmanship, but there was no disguising the glow of anticipation in his eyes. The color in his cheeks and the energy practically sparking from his body.

Their train was bulleting through increasingly green green green countryside (not a skyscraper in sight, and fuck but he felt naked without that cradle of steel-and-glass around him) toward _Wiccan_ and _Hulkling_ and all kinds of strange nonsense Tommy was reluctantly excited to explore—and Billy was coming more and more alive with every mile crossed.

 _Maybe_ , Tommy thought, giving the golden-yellow goggles another serious look, _there’s something to this shit after all_.

“Whatever,” he finally decided, giving a mental shrug and pulling the goggles on. They fit perfectly, frames a chunky white. “I can rock pretty much anything. Tell me more about these classes.”

Billy hesitated. “We probably should go over NPC rules again,” he said, glancing at the thick binder Tommy had wedged into the corner of the long bench seat. “You’re going to be a monster more than you’ll be Speed.”

 _Speed_ had been the name he’d chosen when Billy’s leader or DM or whatever had asked. Mostly because he’d just seen the movie on a _when the fuck does John Wick 3 come out_ -fueled Keanu binge, and it’d been fresh in his brain. But also? Because if he was going to do this, then he was going to race circles around everyone.

“I can figure out the monster shit on the go,” Tommy decided. “I want to figure out Speed now.”

Billy opened his mouth to protest, then must have seen his inevitable loss on Tommy’s face because he sighed and shook his head and capitulated. “All right,” he said. “So the first thing you need to decide is the kind of player you want to be. There are magic users, like wizards, warlocks, druids and sorcerers—like me.”

“ _Lame_ ,” Tommy decided.

Billy shot him a dark look. “But those are too far out of your limited range.”

Tommy wriggled back against the corner where seat met window, smirking. “Uh-huh,” he said, refusing to rise to the bait. “Sure.”

“And then there are the stealth or distance damage dealers, like rogues and rangers.” _Stealth damage,_ huh? That sounded pretty cool. “The healers, with clerics and sort-of paladins.” _Lame_ , again. “And the martial classes.”

“Like your boyfriend,” Tommy pointed out just to see Billy flush.

Predictably, he did, the color rising high on his cheeks. “He’s not my boyfriend,” Billy said, almost immediately undercutting the words by adding, “and he’s a barbarian-paladin cross-class. So he only relies on brute strength maybe half of the time. The other half he does _really_ cool things with his divine oath of vengeance.”

…huh, okay, that actually sounded cool. “I want to be fast,” Tommy said, because, well, _Speed_. He had to live up to a name like that. “And I want to punch things. What do I need to do for that?”

Billy tilted his head. “Well, the obvious choice would be for you to go monk.”

Tommy rolled his eyes and shoved up the goggles. “Fuck you. I promise I’ve had more sex than you have.”

“…no,” Billy said, then stopped himself. “I mean, yes, probably, definitely, one hundred percent for sure, _okay_ , but that’s not what I mean by monk. In game terms, monks are like…” He took a breath as if to explain in excruciating detail, then paused and visibly redirected. “Really cool martial artists.”

And oh, huh. Tommy could work with that. “So there we go. Monk. Dumb as shit name, but whatever, I can make it work.”

“You could also go rogue,” Billy added, “because—”

He cut off when Tommy waved his hand at him. “Does being a _monk_ mean I get to be really fast and punch things in the face?”

“Yyyeessss,” Billy said slowly.

As far as Tommy was concerned, that was that. “All right then, done. I’m a monk named Speed, and I’m probably already ten times cooler than…what were you called again?”

“Wiccan,” Billy said.

Tommy snorted. “Yeah, that’s dumb,” he said. “But very you-dumb, so I don’t know what I was expecting. Okay, okay, cool, so I’ve got a costume and a name and powers and shit, so I’m ready to—”

“Well, okay, there’s a lot more to it than that,” Billy jumped in, because he never was very good at just letting people have their fun. “So if we’re not going to go over the NPC rules for your stint with monster camp,” Tommy shot him the side-eye, “then we should probably go over the basic mechanics of rolling up a character, combat, and general roleplay.” He paused as if waiting for Tommy to stop him, but Tommy simply settled back in his seat and dropped his dope yellow goggles back over his eyes. The world took on a golden sheen; brighter and full of possibility and—

And he was actually _excited_ about all this.

He listened with half an ear as Billy explained various rules about In-Character versus Out-of-Character—about combat and spells and initiatives and attack bonuses and fuuuck who knew hitting people with foam swords involved so much _math_? He pretended to care when Billy filled him in on campaign arcs that had been stretching across the last few years, and he pretended _not_ to care when Teddy-slash-Hulkling kept coming up.

The way Billy talked about the other boy said a lot. It was enough to get his hackles up, protective worry threading through each breath. Because Billy sounded already way too attached, and if this Teddy—Hulkling—whatever was just toying with him as all part of a _game_ …

He closed his eyes against the wash of golden sunlight, tipping his head back against cool glass, and tried not to let himself react before there was anything concrete to react to. Because the thing was, there’d been a hell of a long time before he’d ever even known he had a twin brother—before he’d ever even known he had a family who was worth anything, much less thought he was worth two fucks in return—and as much as he tried to hide it, he wanted this time with Billy. He wanted to tag along and get to know his dumb hobbies and spend _time_ with him.

Like. Quality time. In the woods. Pretending to be elves or whatever.

And he also wanted to do everything in his power to _make sure_ Billy stayed safe and happy for as long as he could manage. Because sometimes when he looked at Billy, he saw the inverse of himself, or maybe the self he could have been if the Kaplans had taken him in as a baby instead of as a probably-too-damaged-or-something- _ugh-whatever_ teen, and he felt. Just.

Fucking _protective_ of that, okay?

Tommy cracked open an eye, watching as Billy gestured wildly, nearly elbowing some random lady as she slipped down the aisle behind him. Billy was so lit up, so engaged, so _passionate_ about this nonsense (like, seriously, what was an AOE spell and how was that different from all the other random packets of birdseed Billy apparently lobbed at people as part of Wiccan’s “abilities”?) that Tommy almost had to smile.

Instead, he closed his eyes again and settled back for the rest of the ride, happy (and determined never to show it) to get this rare look into this new side of the brother he’d never thought he’d care so stupidly much about.

(And seriously, if Teddy-Hulkling-whatever was just yanking Billy along, he’d better be prepared with something stronger than a foam sword because Tommy was fully prepared to cut a bitch.)


	3. Kate

“Hey, Katie,” Clint called as he passed, bow slung over one shoulder. “Need help getting settled?”

He wasn’t the first person who’d asked her that, and he probably wouldn’t be the last. Kate’s gear was one of the most elaborate of the bunch—requiring meticulous makeup and a costume that needed at least three pairs of hands to buckle her into—and it wasn’t like her to be sitting bare-faced and denim-clad this close to the witching hour.

In fact, she was practically twitching with the need to start laying down the first layer of paint now; if she wanted Hawkeye up to her usual level of perfection, she didn’t have long.

Still, she smiled and waved him off. “Nah, you go ahead and get ready without me. I’ll tap you for an assist a bit later.”

“Okay,” he said, walking backwards so he could face her even as he made his inexorable way to the waiting cabins. “If you’re sure. But if we have an oops armor slip sometime tonight and anyone gets an eyeful, it will be my sworn duty as your much worse half to blind everyone who sneaks a looky-loo.”

She made a sarcastic heart with her hands. “You complete me; now go away, asshole, and start spackling your face. God knows you need it more than I do.”

The other Hawkeye (their backstories now so deeply entwined that there was no separating them anymore) blew her a kiss and a wink before spinning back around on his heel and trotting to catch up with his real-life boyfriend (and In-Character nemesis), who was waiting for him with unending patience by the cabin door.

Kate watched him go, shaking her head before looking back out toward the parking lot. The public park where their group met was absolutely massive, full of gorgeous swaths of forests and fields and even a few winding streams with strategic bridges stretching across. They rented out the western campgrounds entirely, along with the main lodge and several pine log cabins peppered in a semi-circle around them. _Those_ would be transformed into the village square, with one set aside for game prep and another the HQ and the NPC monster camp.

She and Clint camped on their own more often than not, away from the “inn” with its bunkbeds and lukewarm immersion. Usually, she’d have the tent already set up and waiting. Usually she’d be a quarter of the way to ready herself. Usually, usually, usually.

Today? Her eyes were fixed on the stupid _parking lot_ and her hands were curled in a death grip around her phone, waiting.

Kate glanced down and shot off a quick text. **_Where r u?_**

As usual, Billy was quick to reply. **_ON MY WAY. The stupid train was late and then the stupid bus was later and aaaahhhh._**

There was a brief pause, then: **_Is Steve getting antsy?_**

Kate snorted. **_No offense to fearless leader but SCREW Steve. I am getting antsy. I need to be the first one you see when you get here so you had BETTER NOT sneak by when I’m not looking._**

The three little dots appeared in silent, panicked response. Then, **_Why what happened oh no Kate tell me._**

**_Uh-uh, no way, not until I’ve got you in front of me. So hurry up and GET HERE ALREADY._ **

A string of anxious emojis flashed across the screen, followed by a gif of a dog chasing its own tail. Kate laughed, settling in to (impatiently) wait as she thumbed through her phone for the last time that long weekend. Soon enough, she’d have bow and arrow in her hand, not news alerts and Spotify.

She was just flicking through her Hawkeye playlist to start the decent into character when she spotted something big and silver glinting in the distance. Kate shoved her phone into her bra and stood, one hand lifting to shield her eyes. Sure enough, that flashing light solidified into a rectangular shape, which swam into focus as the bus that regularly shuttled from the Metro North station. She let out a whoop of relief and practically threw herself down the small hill, taking the grass-then-gravel between them at a loping run—complicated braid snapping behind her like a whip.

Billy was just getting off the bus when she descended upon him, grabbing him around the neck in a fierce hug that almost sent them both flying. “It _took you long enough_ ,” Kate scolded, squeezing him tight. Even though she saw Billy all year round, it always felt different when they were here. More real, more electric, like they were living their lives on two different frequencies. “I had to see you before things got underway. You’ll never guess what—”

Kate stuttered to a stop when another familiar face swung into view, _Tommy_ hopping down that last step. He had a pair of stupid goggles perched on his head, and he was grinning like he had the wickedest secret in the world. “Oh,” she said, somewhere between confused and annoyed. “What are you doing here?”

“What a greeting,” Tommy teased, waggling his brows at her suggestively. “You that happy to see me?”

The expression was so obnoxiously, quintessentially Tommy that Kate had to laugh, even as she rolled her eyes. Billy’s other, younger brothers were perfectly fine—almost pleasant, even!—but his discovered-late-in-life twin was a complete dick. “Yeah,” she said, wishing she still had her sunglasses on so she could look at him over the rims. “I’m beside myself. So _anyway_ ,” Kate added, looping her arm in Billy’s and dragging him several steps away, leaving the luggage retrieval to Tommy. The driver was lifting the compartments lining the side of the bus and chucking out various bags, suitcases, and swords. “Guess who asked after you the minute he arrived on campus?”

It was charming the way Billy blushed—all at once, in a rush, color blooming across his cheeks in a scarlet wave. “Are you serious?” he demanded, voice dropping.

Kate followed suit, dipping her head so they could whisper back and forth excitedly. “I would _not_ lie about something like this, B,” she assured him. “He got in maybe half an hour after me, and he seriously bee-lined straight toward me. A man on a mission.”

She didn’t know Teddy outside of the game—that was part of the mystique for Steve, their DM; she only knew Billy because they’d come into it together—but they were pretty close _inside_ the game. Close enough that she thought of him as a friend, even if they only saw each other a few times a year and never talked about anything but DPS and spell slots. But even so, she’d been surprised by the way he’d sought her out, the way he’d asked, low and endearingly shy…

“Well?” Billy demanded, practically vibrating in place. “What did he say?”

“He _said,_ ” Kate replied with a grin, “ _Is Billy here yet? I wanted to talk to him before things got started.”_

Billy’s flush somehow deepened, grew, expanding in watercolor swirls up his ears, down his neck, all of him bright bright bright. “Oh,” he breathed. Getting the importance immediately, just like Kate knew he would.

She felt wonderfully smug and _happy_ and jealous, all blended together in a complicated mess of emotion. Part of Kate wanted to go Godzilla on this whole thing before it could really take off, smashing the skyscraping hopes and delicate drawbridge dreams (and God, that tangled metaphor was probably Clint’s influence; she really needed to find better friends.) Except _oh yeah_ , that was why this selfish part of her wanted to take a wrecking ball to this little flirtation in the first place, because she didn’t have many friends and Billy was one of the few who really got her.

Would he have so much time to grab bubble tea and make snap judgments about people on the street with her if he had an actual real-life boyfriend?

And yet mostly she was just _so thrilled_ that something was finally happening for him. How long had he been silently pining away, living vicariously through Wiccan?

(How long had she been doing the same, and no, nope, this wasn’t about the sad desert of her own poor little rich girl life.)

“So,” Kate said, firmly ignoring the mad spiral of her thoughts. “Are you going to just stand there, or are we going to go find him?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Billy said, actually jerking forward a step as if he was about to go sprinting toward the camp. He stumbled on gravel, sneakers skidding before he got more than a foot or two, and shot a guilty glance toward where his twin was lugging bags from the tangled pile stacked against the merrily humming bus. “…except, shit, I need to get Tommy set up with Steve in monster camp. And then I need to get in costume. And then…”

He trailed off, one hand flapping unhappily. There was a whole universe of bullshit that could fit into that weak _and then_. The hours leading up to go-time were always the craziest, with sometimes literal fur flying as kids got into costume and techies ran through the special effects one last time and rules were checked and double-checked and triple-checked with Steve’s ruthless efficiency and— And yeah, time wasn’t exactly on their side here.

Kate let out an annoyed puff of breath, watching Billy’s face crumple up before letting her gaze shift to Tommy. Those stupid goggles weren’t fitted right, the bridge slipping down his narrow nose. White-blond hair fell across his brow as he dragged their suitcases over gravel.

 _So much for Godzilla_ , she thought with an inward sigh. “You go on,” Kate said, waving Billy off like the fucking angel of mercy she was. “I’ll help drag the rest of your stuff to camp and get Tommy checked in with Steve.”

“But…Hawkeye takes ages to pull together,” Billy said, even though he was already edging toward the grass lining the parking lot, as if his feet had already made up his mind for him. “You say so all the time. How will you get ready before final bell?”

The answer was, she wouldn’t. Hawkeye would have to settle for a less elaborate coif and scales this opening night. Damn it. “You let me and Clint figure that out,” she said, leaning over to give Billy a little shove. “Go on. _Go_. Catch him before the makeup trolls swallow him whole; you won’t be able to wrestle a spare minute alone if he’s already pulling on his own costume.”

It was the endless downside of playing one of the more interesting-looking humanoids in the game.

Billy backed up slowly, gaze darting between Kate and Tommy, who was just huffing up to join them. “Um, well, if you’re sure…” he began. Then, all in a rush as if trying to get it out before Tommy burst in with questions: “Okay-thanks-well-I’ll-see-you-at-final-bell,” and he was turning on his heel and _sprinting_ away, metaphorical dust rising behind him Road Runner style.

Kate shook her head, hands on her hips, and watched her best friend lurch head-first into his destiny. (Or something.) Then she glanced at his obnoxious twin brother. “Billy had something he had to do,” she said, proud of herself for not smirking at the accidental double entendre. “Looks like it’s just you and me.”

“Upgrade,” Tommy decided, waggling his brows at her. Kate sighed and playfully knocked their shoulders together as she reached for Billy’s suitcase— _hard_ , but not hard enough to make him stumble. Tommy was made of sterner stuff than that. “So, what, you’re my personal valet now?”

“Not likely,” she said, yanking the handle to its full extension and wheeling the battered red rollerboard toward the path that snaked through the tall grass from parking lot to the closest cabins. “But if you’re extra nice, maybe I’ll play tour guide.”

Tommy fumbled with his own bag, hoisting it up as he quickly followed in her footsteps. “I’m _always_ extra nice to hot girls with…” He hesitated. “What’ve you got? Packets of bird seed like Billy? A sword?” He shouldered up next to her, eyebrows bouncing. “I always liked a chick who could handle a broadsword.”

She shot him her best quelling look. Honest-to-God millionaires had melted under the pressure of that glare, but Tommy’s shit-eating grin simply widened. All right, so this one was going to be a challenge. “Bow and arrow,” she said. Then, arching a single brow, “But I keep a knife strapped close in case of emergencies. You never know when some dick’ll wander by with balls in need of a _very_ close shave.”

His grin merely grew—wider and wider, as if he were enjoying the implied threat just a little too much for comfort. “Oh yeah?” Tommy asked, all wide-eyed innocence. “And where’s that knife strapped? I need to know,” he added at her flat look. “You know: for science.”

Kate leaned in close—closer—even closer. Close enough that she could feel the surprised puff of his breath on her cheeks; close enough that she could see herself reflected back in both his stupid goggles and obnoxiously pretty eyes. “Wander a little too close to Hawkeye this weekend,” she purred, using the inflection she adopted when in character, “and you might just find out.”

She had to swallow back a laugh at the way he flushed crimson-red— _just_ like his twin brother—and stumbled over an invisible rock on the path. No one, not even Clint, could face down Hawkeye in her glory and come away completely unruffled.

Kate tilted her chin, shooting him her best withering glare ( _I dare you_ , she projected) before muscling past Tommy and up to the little stoop leading to the OOC cabin. It was alive and alight, half-dressed player-characters jockeying for position in front of the mirror as they pulled on their costumes. The smell of stage makeup and hairspray and leather and chain mail filled the air; Kate dragged in a sweet lungful, already feeling herself transform from the inside-out.

 _Home_ , the very earth and air seemed to whisper as Hawkeye came awake inside her. _You’re home._

And, several feet back, left standing gobsmacked on the sidewalk: “Wait,” Tommy called, a strangled laugh in his voice. “Who the fuck is _Hawkeye_?”


	4. Billy

He was so stupidly nervous that he thought his heart was going to pound right out of his chest.

Billy stopped just past the corner of the main lodge and worked to get his breathing under control. He’d sprinted here from the cabin, costume half-cobbled-together: winged diadem listing over one eye, tights all bunched up around his asscrack, tattered red cape barely hanging on. He’d never dressed faster in his life, throwing the lovingly curated pieces that made up _Wiccan_ onto his body like he was trying to break land-speed records.

_“Oh, Teddy?”_ Maria had said, zipping up her sleek black jumpsuit and checking herself critically in the mirror. _“Cassie’s set up shop behind the lodge this time. Something about the fumes getting to people. You’ll probably find him there.”_

Cassie was something of a whiz with body paints thanks to some undefined theater experience; she made it a habit of offering her services getting the more outlandishly decorated PCs up and running in time for witching hour. Usually Billy stayed well away from whatever space she claimed—Wiccan didn’t need anything more than the costume, and he’d just be underfoot if he ever tried to venture into her sphere of paints and powders and iridescent scales.

But…but _Teddy_ was there. And Teddy wanted to see him. And _holy freaking crap_ he was about to come vibrating out of his skin with nerves as he turned to check and double-check his reflection in the lodge windows, trying not to be too obvious about adjusting the fit of spandex against his crotch.

The cape fluttered majestically behind him. The belt—hung heavy with brightly colored packets of bird seed—slung low on his hips. Even his hair was almost behaving. He looked decent. Okay. Acceptable, probably, and all right. All right, he was _doing this_.

Taking a deep, bracing breath, Billy set his shoulders back and strode around the corner—

—and into something out of a nightmare. Or a wet dream. Or, you know, both.

Teddy stood at the center of a small hive of activity, naked from the waist up and the mid-thighs-down. He was facing Billy, but his head was tilted to watch as Cassie pointed an airbrush gun at one powerful calf. His skin was a lovely green from the toes up to around his knees, his fingers to his elbows, _three_ separate makeup artists quickly covering the _oh fuck yes_ perfect canvas of his body.

There were… There were abs, and pecs, and Billy was so so screwed.

He must have made some kind of wounded-animal noise, huge eyes taking in a mostly naked Teddy mid-transformation to Hulkling, because Teddy looked up: blond bangs falling across one eye, the other meeting Billy’s shocked-still gaze. The silver of his earrings caught the setting sunlight, and his whole…general, beautiful, naked-skin-situation sort of _glowed_ with the red-orange rays. If naked skin could be mocking in its perfection, Teddy’s certainly was.

Like. There were _muscles._ _Everywhere_. How was this fair?

“Um,” Billy squeaked, feeling himself go red all at once. It was like flashpaper being set alight; there was no playing off a blush this mortifyingly epic. “Hey, Teddy. Cassie. Um, people I don’t recognize.”

The other two makeup artists glanced up, then back to their work, focused on getting as much of Teddy’s skin covered as possible. They didn’t seem bothered by his ignorance.

“Hey, Billy,” Teddy said, shifting a little, as if he were even a quarter as awkward as Billy felt. “Did you just get in?”

“Hey Billy,” Cassie added over the hiss of her paintgun. She smacked Teddy’s thigh lightly when he shifted. “Keep still.”

“Right,” Teddy said immediately. “Sorry.”

Billy shuffled a few steps closer. “Yeah, um, sorry,” he said to Cassie, since he _was_ the one distracting her masterpiece. Then he added to Teddy, “I got in about five or ten minutes ago. Just long enough to throw on my cape, you know?” He gave it a little awkward swirl as if to prove his point. Which, _why_? _Why_ did he always have to be so weird around Teddy when he could be so relaxed—so comfortable—with Hulkling. It didn’t make any sense.

(Except, really, it made perfect sense when he allowed himself to think about it. With Hulkling and Wiccan, they were playing long-established parts. It was acting, and sure he embodied his character more than any role he’d ever played before, but it still wasn’t _him_. Teddy and Billy was so much more fraught because if Hulkling turned Wiccan down, then it was just part of the game. If Billy spilled his heart to Teddy and Teddy said _thanks but no thanks_? That would be devastating. Personal. All too horribly real.)

“But anyway,” Billy continued before silence could stretch more than a millisecond or two, “Kate said something about you wanting to talk to me, so um, I figured I should track you down. So here I am, tracking you down.”

_Stop. Talking. You. Dork._

“Yeah,” Teddy said immediately, as if Billy weren’t being a complete spaz. “I did. I do. I…” He glanced down, then over, at the three people busily covering him in paint. It was up to his shoulders now, the characteristic deeper shadows and crags not yet painted into place. It was also (Billy noticed helplessly) nearly mid-thigh, and wow, seriously, those were… Those were some _thighs_ , all right.

Hell. His feverish imagination really didn’t need to know the answer to _is Teddy a boxers or a briefs kind of guy_.

“You’re a little busy right now,” Billy filled in the blanks.

“He’s a _lot_ busy right now,” Cassie interrupted. She paused to shoot Billy a quick glance, crooked smile not at all unfriendly. “Sorry, B, but we’re getting perilously close to first bell and Teddy here takes almost as much time as Kate and Clint. We may be able to finish a little early, but it’s going to be tight this time.”

Teddy shot Billy a helpless look. “I’ll catch you on the green if there’s still time,” he promised, obligingly holding out his arms when the kid on his left lightly tapped his shoulder.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Billy said quickly. He took a step back, cape swirling around his legs. “I’ll see you on the green.” But he didn’t turn around to leave right away. Instead, he shuffled back into the shadow of the lodge and kept his gaze fixed on _Teddy_ being made into _Hulkling_. It was a little surreal to see the transformation taking place under his nose: the boy he liked transforming inch by inch into the man his other self loved. It was a weird sort of double vision—an unexpected dissonance—and he had to shake his head to jostle the feeling free before he could turn on his heel and sheepishly slink away.

Other costumed heroes and villains were beginning to fill the large green in front of the main lodge. He spotted goliaths with leather gauntlets and greatswords; elves with rapiers and cloaks of +2 AC; a trio of gnomes checking each other’s haversacks. Off in the distance, the rest of the crew were pulling together their costumes for the big event, and tucked just to the right of the lodge sat Monster Camp, where Steve would be running the key NPCs through their paces in the last run-up to first bell.

There was an electric excitement in the air; a sense of giddy impatience, and homecoming. Here they were, a bunch of disparate puzzle pieces flung across the northeast, come together for one long weekend to find new selves and new lives and adventure their own daily grind could never give them.

Except…

Except _Kate said something about you wanting to talk to me_ , and maybe that was the first glimmer of hope for another, different kind of adventure waiting in his future.

He supposed only time would tell. Until then, Billy tightened his own gauntlets and checked to make sure his spells were ready, letting himself sink into the familiar rhythm of Wiccan: Sorcerer Supreme and defender of the downtrodden…boyfriend of Hulkling, the half-orc paladin-barbarian cross-class _perfection_ who had stolen his heart.


	5. Steve

“Tony, please tell me you’ve got this under control,” Steve said into the walkie-talkie, doing his best to keep the very real nerves out of his voice. It was a big weekend—bigger than usual, with unprecedented attendance. Some of that was thanks to the ongoing dedication of long-time players, but a big chunk of it was the tease leaked at the end of last quarter’s session:

This time, characters would face demons they never had before.

One particular demon, actually, in the form of Thanos. But there would _be_ no Thanos (and therefore no big, dramatic, climactic final battle) if Tony and Bruce and Shuri couldn’t get the dang thing up and running.

“Tony,” Steve said again when there was no answer, voice gone tight. He could practically feel the blood rushing through his veins. “Report.”

Shuri’s voice came over the crackling static instead. “Tony’s very busy trying to get himself electrocuted right now,” she said dryly. “Why don’t you try back in a few minutes? Maybe you can even have his last words.”

That…didn’t sound promising. “You’re not going to let him kill himself, are you?” Steve asked, pacing away from one window to the next. Bucky glanced up from his station, where he was finalizing and printing various NPC cards. His expression was somewhere between concerned and amused. Sam, perched all the way on the far desk and dividing out the costumes, just smirked. “You’ll save him from his own hubris?”

Shuri made a low humming noise that was neither answer nor comfort, but it was Bruce who said, “Ah, yes, copy that Cap. We’ll make sure he’s only a little fried.” There was a beat, then a sigh and: “Tony wants me to add that he’s touched by your show of concern and wants you to sing at his funeral.” Pause. “I’m not going to say that, Tony.” Another pause. Another sigh. “Specifically _Wind Beneath My Wings_. Look, ah, we should probably focus on this if you want Project Thanos up and running in time.”

Steve resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Just…try to keep everyone in one piece over there,” he settled on, catching sight of Peggy through the French doors that led into the other room, running the NPCs through their paces with brutal efficiency. She arched a playful brow when she caught him watching. “We can’t afford the lawsuit.”

“I’ll do my bes—” Bruce began, only to (clearly) have the walkie-talkie snatched out of his hands.

“One,” Tony said, the hum of whirring machinery and hiss of sparks nearly drowning out his voice, “ _I_ can afford the lawsuit; I can afford a hundred lawsuits, so calm your perfect tits, focus on what you do best, and let me and my team do what _we_ do best.”

A voice called out, clear over the hum of Thanos: “Not on your team!” Shuri said.

“Two,” Tony pushed on, ignoring the protest, “no need to start cobbling together a backup for your backup: we’ve got this SOB under out thumbs. More or less,” he had to add in the wake of a terrifyingly loud hiss of steam. “And three: make sure you enunciate when you take the stage. The Divine Miss M sets a high bar that I want you to clear with ease. So repeat after me… _Did you ever know that you’re my hero?_ ”

Steve rubbed at his brow. “I’m shutting this thing off now,” he said, though both of them knew he wouldn’t. No matter how many times Tony (or Thor when he was around, or sometimes Clint and Natasha in one of their more playful moods) liked to use the always-open channel to mess with him, his sense of responsibility had him glued to the walkie-talkie—and his phone—and his email—and any form of communication possible—at all times.

The PCs were here to have fun. He was here to make sure everything was safe enough, ran smoothly enough, was organized enough for them to _have_ that fun.

And in return, Steve got the joy of knowing he’d helped create this little home for misfits and weirdos and creatives who sometimes had trouble finding the ways they fit into the real world on their own.

“Sure, k, love you, bye,” Tony said in a sing-song. Steve ignored it—ignored him—and clipped the walkie-talkie back on his belt as he made his way to Bucky. “They’re having some trouble with Thanos,” he said. Despite his faith in the techies, he wouldn’t be Steve if he didn’t have a backup in mind. “Are you willing to play Winter Soldier if push comes to shove?”

Bucky twisted in his chair, squinting up at him. He looked as exhausted as Steve felt, shadows under his eyes and a caffeine shake to his hands. The last few days had been rough, where everything that could go wrong went brilliantly, _spectacularly_ wrong. It was a miracle they were here at all, less than thirty minutes away from the witching hour.

“If you need the Winter Soldier,” Bucky said slowly, “I can do the Winter Soldier. Just give me warning so I can get into character.”

Steve dropped a hand on his best friend’s shoulder and squeezed. “If you see a fireball in the distance, you’ll know Thanos is a wash and we need you to suit up,” he joked. When Bucky snorted and reached for the (likely cold) coffee at his elbow, Steve leaned in and snagged it from him. “You need sleep more than you need this.”

“We need a strong opening night more than I need either of those things,” Bucky pointed out, standing and making as if to snag the mug back. “Once we’ve got that, I’ll sleep. _If_ ,” he added pointedly, “you do too.”

He reluctantly let Bucky steal back the coffee. “Sleep is for the PCs and the support staff,” he said with a wry twist of his mouth. Truthfully, there was a good chance no one would sleep much tonight: the support team because they’d be spending hour after hour troubleshooting all the little things that went wrong opening night, and the PCs because the buzzing excitement of being back in the field would keep them on their toes. (Not to mention a goblin attack scheduled in the wee hours of morning.) But Bucky… God, but Bucky looked like he could use it. “Look, Buck,” he said, “if we’re going to have to tap you for final boss, we’re going to need you at one hundred percent. Go on and get some rest; we can pick up the slack.”

“Nope,” Bucky said, stubborn as always. “The only way I’m going to bed is if you crawl in next to me.”

On the other side of the room, Sam gave a strangled half-laugh, half-cough. “This is getting above my pay grade,” he teased, hopping down from the desk. He hoisted up a bin of sorted costumes, brows lifted when they both turned to look at him. “When we hit the bedsharing trope, I know it’s time to make my escape. I’ll check in with Peggy,” he added, cocking his head toward the opening French doors, “and see what she needs for…”

He trailed off as Peggy herself pushed into the room, one hand clasped on the shoulder of a remarkably familiar-yet-not boy.

Steve straightened, studying the newest recruit. It was uncanny how much he looked like Billy Kaplan, and yet how _unlike_ Billy he was at the same time. It wasn’t just the shock of silver-white hair, either. Billy’s twin brother held himself differently. He had a different energy, a different aura, a _fuck-you-too_ kind of lift to his chin that was nothing like Billy’s approachable half-smile. Even his frame was subtly different, the musculature leaner and more hardened. He crossed his arms as he stared back at Steve, a challenge in the lift of his silver brow.

But of course Peggy—being Peggy—had him well in hand. “Our latest monster,” she said. “We found him lurking about the PC cabin, making mischief.”

“ _Making mischief_ ,” Tommy echoed in a bad mimicry of Peggy’s accent. He winced when her grip on his shoulder tightened, then laughed. “Oh, so that’s why Billy warned I shouldn’t fuck with you,” he said with his own crooked grin—this one more Han Solo than Billy’s Luke Skywalker. “Good to know.” Tommy ticked his gaze back to Steve and Bucky. “I guess I’m reporting for duty, _sir_.”

Well this already had trouble written all over it. But he wanted to give Tommy the benefit of the doubt, even if he could already sense Bucky drawing his own (less than complimentary) conclusions next to him. “It’s good to have you on board, Tommy,” Steve said, moving forward to greet him. He didn’t thrust out his hand to shake—he had it on good authority that this made him seem weird and older than his actual age—but instead leaned over the desk to grab a goblin one-sheet. It had all the major stats Tommy would need, as well as a couple of “cheat sheet” rules in case he got out there and forgot everything. “Here,” he added, handing it over. “We’ll get you started light. Tonight there will be a couple of ongoing quest threads—go ahead and shadow one of the other NPCs to get the lay of the land. Your first role won’t be until the goblin attack tomorrow morning.”

Tommy took the sheet, looking dubious. He glanced at the call time printed neatly on the upper-right-hand corner, then whistled. “Five am? You’ve got to be shitting me.”

“I promise you, he isn’t,” Bucky said, just shy of combative.

“The raid’s planned for sunup,” Steve explained, “but we want to give all monsters time to get in gear and character and run through any last-minute troubleshooting before we begin. Peggy will be leading the charge.” She tilted her chin, looking as ferociously competent as ever. There was a reason he trusted her to run monster camp exclusively. “If you follow her lead and do what she does, you’ll be fine. We want to give the PCs a wakeup call they won’t forget.”

Tommy shook his head, mutiny clear in every line of his body, but surprisingly, he didn’t voice any more protests. “Okay, sure,” he said, folding up the one-sheet and stuffing it into his pocket. “I’ll give this a look and report for duty at five freaking am.”

“You’ll memorize it,” Peggy said, challenge clear in the single lift of her brow, “and you will not be late.”

Tommy looked between her and Steve and Bucky, then toward Sam who was watching them all with a curious expression. He seemed to be sizing them up, as if deciding whether it was worthwhile to try pushing back. Luckily for all of them, he shrugged his shoulders affably enough. “You’re the bosses,” he said—then laughed, visibly relaxing some of the _authority-can-bite-my-ass_ bravado that had been crashing off him in waves. “The monster bosses. This shit is wild.”

“Uh-huh,” Peggy said dryly, snagging Tommy’s elbow and tugging him back toward the French doors. “And you’re just seeing the tip of the iceberg. Come on, follow me: we’ll need to kit you out for tonight, even if you are just shadowing.”

Steve watched the two of them go, Sam trailing behind with the costumes, waiting as the doors closed firmly behind them. There were a million and one things that needed his attention in the—he ticked his gaze toward the clock—twenty minutes before witching hour, but…

Bucky, as always, read his thought. “He’s going to be trouble,” he grumbled, arms crossed tight over his chest. “Why did you agree to let him fold into the game again?”

Steve sighed. “Because Billy asked,” he said simply. And Billy had been playing more than long enough to earn the right to ask for a favor; more than that, he’d earned trust and respect. “As for Tommy, I’m willing to bet he’ll take it seriously once things get going. You remember how it is.”

Bucky hadn’t exactly been dragged kicking and screaming into the game all those years ago, but he hadn’t been shy about letting Steve know he thought this was all _flippin’ weird_. And now here they were, leading the longest-running campaign in the group’s memory, talking about bring the _Winter Soldier_ out of retirement. Funny how some things seemed determined to cycle.

“Sure,” Bucky said, leaning to knock their shoulders together. A wry smile stretched the corner of his mouth. “Okay, we’ll be optimistic. But I reserve the right to say _I-told-you-so_ if he goes rogue. A guy like that doesn’t take orders for long.”

“We’ll see,” Steve said, unwilling to not at least give the kid a chance. Then, clapping his hands together as if to dispel the vague worry clouding the room, he turned to the bank of laptops lined up on a camping table along the far wall. “All right, let’s go over the plot arcs one last time,” he said. “Plan A and B. I want to make sure this is the best weekend ever.”

_It has to be_ , he thought, as he and his right-hand-man settled in to discuss character moments and villain motivations and battle strategy, pouring over all the details like it really was life-or-death here. _Especially since it’s going to be the last._


	6. Teddy

Five minutes to witching hour.

Teddy thanked Cassie and her team one last time, truly grateful for the incredible amount of work they’d accomplished in such a short time. Becoming Hulkling was always…well, it was a _process_. Sometimes he wished he’d gone for a more human-looking class so all he’d have to worry about was armor and weapons. He’d even given it a half-hearted try back in the very beginning, before Steve took over the group.

But half-orc had called to him in some way he couldn’t describe. There was something about the heavy brow and subtle tusks and deep striations of green on green on green skin that felt _right_ to him. Before, he’d struggle to find a character voice that fit the whirling emotion coming to life inside him. Now, when he paused one last time to glance in the mirror and take himself in, he felt…

He felt wholly like _himself_ , in a way he rarely did just walking around in his own skin.

Teddy tugged the strap of his tooled leather harness-slash-shoulder-guards until it fit where it was supposed to. He’d gained a bit of muscle across his chest over the last quarter and had grown at least another half-inch, so the custom pieces didn’t fit quite the way they used to. Still, he supposed it looked okay. Maybe Billy would even appreciate the extra bit of skin.

 _Billy_.

He flushed at the thought, grateful that the heavy water-resistant stage makeup hid the color rising to his cheeks. He’d really wanted to get a chance to talk to the other boy before things started up again—before Hulkling and Wiccan started up again. But honestly, part of him was glad that he wasn’t going to get the chance. It was so much easier to just chicken out and let their alter egos take over, to not risk putting himself out there and potentially getting rejected.

The truth was, he liked Billy. Wiccan. All of it, all of _him_. And he wanted to get to know all of him better. Maybe back home, when this was over. Over coffee. Like…a date. Or, uh, something, anything, whatever Billy wanted. _If_ Billy wanted. _If_ Billy was interested in something outside of the characters they played a few weekends out of the year. _If_ Billy was even—

 _Stop. Freaking. Out_ , Teddy told himself firmly. He forced himself to check over his makeup and armor one last time (even though he knew Cassie had done her magic perfectly) before strapping on his sword and heading out to join the milling crowds about the main green. Almost everyone was already here, dressed in costume and ready to go. The moon had risen full and beautiful, casting the main cabin and its grounds in a gentle glow: glinting off chain mail and daggers and silver wings.

Teddy let himself breathe it in, soak in the familiar homecoming of it all. There was Eli in his jaw-droppingly intricate armor, loosening his muscles in a series of stretches. There was Loki testing his latest staff, black-rimmed eyes and delicate iridescent scaled skin seeming to both catch the light and collect the shadows at once. There were the Hawkeyes, standing side-by-side in their detailed feather-and-scaled glory; Maria was helping thread a last few remaining feathers into Kate’s loose hair, creating a waterfall effect. And there—

Teddy froze mid-step, feeling his heart—his lungs—his whole body—give a sharp tug of response at the sight of a tattered red cape and simple diadem, dark hair defiantly messy. Billy, Wiccan, _whatever_ , looked…he looked good. He always looked good. Dressed in black-and-red lycra, his body seemed less gangly than when he was in jeans and a sweatshirt. His shoulders came back and his chin lifted. He _held_ himself like someone who had studied the mysteries of the universe and came away with a breadth of knowledge that couldn’t be defied.

Maybe it was the subtle alchemy of this place. Maybe it was working its magic on all of them. Teddy certainly felt more at peace with himself standing here in barbarian leathers and paladin iconography, so unrecognizable he could have been anyone else and yet had never felt more like himself. This place…this thing they did…other people probably thought they were crazy, but God, the way it made him _feel_ —too much and not enough and so very good right down to his bones. It was incredible.

So yeah. If the energy here could fill him up like this, no wonder Billy-as-Wiccan could feel it too. That’s why Wiccan and Hulkling were practically soulmates anyway, right? Because they were so good at understanding each other without a word being spoken?

 _If only_ , Teddy thought, moving to stand beside his partner with that creeping sense of shyness trying to take over the sheer comfort of being by Wiccan’s side, _some of that mind-reading could splash over into the real world._

“Hey,” Teddy said, trying not to wince when Wiccan’s calm demeanor immediately shattered into an awkward, startled sputtering. Wiccan—no, it was definitely Billy right now—turned too fast, backing up a step and pinwheeling his arms when he stomped on the trailing edge of his own cape. Teddy winced. “Sorry,” he added. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t,” Billy said quickly, catching his own balance. Even in the flickering light of the torches (lining the main green, electric but convincing nonetheless), Teddy could tell that his cheeks were red. It was reassuring to know that Billy felt just as off-center as Teddy. It told him that maybe he wasn’t reading too much into this thing between them. “I mean, okay, you totally did, but, um, anyway. Hi.”

The last was added sheepishly, accompanied by a painfully awkward—and endearing—wave. Billy’s cape flapped with the movement.

Teddy felt himself beginning to smile— _shy_ , too, even after everything they’d been through together. “Hi,” he said. “Sorry about earlier. Cassie…”

There was no interrupting Cassie when she got started.

“Oh, no, totally.” Billy waved the words away quickly. “I get it. I’m, um, sorry I didn’t get here earlier. Our train was delayed. And our bus. …and my life in general, so, you know.”

“It’s okay,” Teddy assured him, just as quickly. “I mean, it happens.”

He let out a little, gusting breath. “Yeah. Well. I mean. New York, right?”

Even the helpless little shrug of his shoulders was cute; God, Teddy really had it bad, didn’t he? He shifted closer, both nervous around Billy and drawn to Wiccan in a way he couldn’t quantify. His heart was beating triple-time, but his hands already knew what it felt like to grip those slim hips. His skin already knew the touch of Billy’s fingertips. They hadn’t done more than stand in moonlight and hold each other close—they hadn’t even _kissed_ —but he knew every dip and curve of Wiccan’s body as intimately as he knew his own. He swore some days he even knew what Wiccan would taste like when he… _if_ he…if _they_ …

Teddy shook his head to clear the clouding thoughts. “Anyway,” he said, at exactly the moment Billy said, “So what did you want to talk about?”

Now there was a leading topic if there ever was one. Teddy glanced toward the main cabin, where Steve was just now stepping out onto the front porch, flanked by Bucky on one side, Peggy on the other, Sam a few steps behind. They had folders in hand—Sam was clearly checking his watch—and there wasn’t any time to get into this. The minutes, seconds, were ticking down, and his window had already closed for another few months.

“Teddy?” Billy lightly touched his arm, the heat of that one point of contact rippling through him in concentric waves. Teddy glanced down, meeting his eyes, and yeah, hell, he _really_ liked this boy. Liked him enough to turn helplessly toward him even as Steve stepped forward to call the game to order.

“I wanted to ask you,” Teddy said, feeling the anxiety and hope building inside him. Thrumming, humming, overtaking his senses. Overwhelming everything else. “I mean. After this session, I was _hoping—_ ”

Steve’s voice, loud and strong as it rose over the excited murmur of the costumed crowd, broke into Teddy’s desperate confession. “Everyone,” he said, drawing eyes to him. Even Teddy glanced over, instinctively drawn by his DM even when he so desperately wanted to _find out_ whether this thing between him and Billy could actually be real. “Thank you for coming. I’d like to welcome you to the thirtieth gathering of the NYC-LARP.” He looked around, blue eyes intent, jaw set. Something about his expression had Teddy tensing, even though he couldn’t say why. “The entire mod team hopes you have a fantastic weekend and enjoy what we have planned for you.”

“Teddy?” Billy whispered, still standing close. Still watching him. _Intent_. When Teddy looked back at him, he offered a tentative smile. “What were you hoping?”

 _What were you hoping_? There were so many things he could say to that. So much he _wanted_. And yet—

“We were going to wait until the end of play this weekend to make it official,” Steve was saying from what felt like a million miles away, a real _sadness_ in his voice. “But after talking it through, we decided it was only fair to tell you now. As much as we’ve loved leading you through this game these past few years, I’m afraid we’re going to have to close our doors.”

 _That_ got both of their attention—everyone’s attention—scores of eyes snapping to Steve. Shocked murmurs rippled through the crowd, and Teddy could have sworn he felt the ground opening up beneath him, this haven…this refuge away from the world, where he could finally be at home in his own skin…crumbling piece by piece as Steve Rogers said, with all the gravity in the world:

“This weekend will be our last.”


	7. Tommy

Everyone was in a state of shock, which sucked for them.

For Tommy? It was all gravy. Mostly because the PCs were _so_ shocked that they weren’t really paying attention to what was going on around them.

“Okay,” he whispered, crouching down outside one of the cabins. Or _inns_. Or what-the-fuck-evers. They’d been meticulously remade to fit with the whole Game of Thrones aesthetic, innkeeper NPCs charging for a night’s rest in one of the bunks that lined the three large cabin rooms. Billy was in one of those bunks, Tommy knew, sleeping off his visible angst over Steve’s announcement.

Teddy, however, was already up and moving around, even though the sun was barely kissing the horizon.

_Freak_ , Tommy thought without any real heat. Of course Billy would get a nerd-on for a total morning person. “Okay, so, what’s the plan?”

The solemn boy who’d been introduced to him as _David_ pushed his glasses up his nose. They were both dressed in strips of green-and-brown rags, their foam swords held over their heads in what Tommy was assured meant _pause_ mode. Any time the game had to stop or a player had to cross the field quickly for non-game reasons, up went the swords or staffs or whatever. He felt like an idiot crouching here under the window, fake sword over his head, but David looked like even more of an idiot, so he supposed it was okay in the end.

“The plan is to wait for our squad leader to give the signal,” David said patiently, as if he hadn’t already run through this a billion times already. “Then all of us surround the buildings. We’ll attack the first wave of PCs at her order.”

“Yeah, but,” Tommy said dubiously, “why don’t we just go ahead and attack _now_? Everyone’s either asleep or crying in a corner. We could totally get the drop on them.”

David frowned. He did that a lot, though most especially when Tommy suggested perfectly reasonable work-arounds to the rules. The killjoy. “Peggy and Steve worked out this first encounter,” he said. “We’re supposed to wait here until she gives the signal, then—”

“Sure, sure,” Tommy interrupted, waving his free hand. The other was still stupidly perched over his head, sword sticking out like one of those novelty arrows. “But on the _other_ hand, we could just charge through this window, take down that one,” he eyed Teddy as the other boy crossed to the door and stepped outside into the just-shy-of-dawn light; he was barely visible around the corner of the cabin, “round up all the sleeping assholes, and win this thing.”

David’s frown grew, which seemed like an impossibility, but here they were. “Steve said,” he began.

“From what I heard, Steve’s stepping down,” Tommy pointed out, “so I don’t see why it matters what he says.”

Inside the cabin, tavern, _whatever_ , a sleeping PC twitched and turned over as if disturbed by the very idea. Some distance away now, Billy’s fake boyfriend settled into an easy crouch on the dew-slick grass and began to stretch his arms over his head, back arching. His legs folded into a familiar pose and oh, gross, of course perfect Teddy Altman did yoga at sunrise. Billy sure did know how to choose them.

“…still don’t have all the information,” David was whispering, fierce, as delusional as the rest of them. All night, Tommy had caught feverish whispered OOC conversations in between the _thee_ s and _thou_ s. People were grasping at straws, hoping that there was something they were missing—some vital piece that might slot into place as easy as you please. Some fucking hail Mary that would save their game and their characters and their friendships and all this thing was to them. Their escape. Their world away from the world.

But from where Tommy was standing, Steve’s message had been loud and clear: the leadership team couldn’t hack it anymore and were looking to disassemble.

“Uh-huh,” Tommy said, eyes on Teddy. The sun was starting to come up, framing his big body in light. _Haloing_ it, like one of those old religious paintings. That plus the slow, measured way he moved, the calm that seemed to radiate from him like this moment was something out of a tv show, was unexpectedly…beautiful.

He supposed he could almost see where his brother’s obsession was coming from. Maybe.

David tapped his elbow. “Come on,” he whispered, moving in a crouch away from the window—and away from where Teddy…Hulkling… _whatever_ sat out on the far green, kissed by light. “Peggy’s signaling us to loop around into position.”

“Sure, sure,” Tommy said, shifting as if to follow. But he didn’t take more than a couple of steps—just enough to convince David he was lagging behind him—before slowing. Stopping. Glancing back at that lone figure.

This was the best shot he was probably going to get, Tommy realized. Teddy was alone. His guard was down. And maybe, just maybe, he was feeling raw enough from last night’s surprise announcement to share a little bit of honesty of his own.

_And if not_ , Tommy reasoned to himself, turning and slinking the opposite way from David and Peggy and the whole goblin raid thing, _maybe a few whacks over the head with a sword will jostle something loose._ Because yeah, sure, he was all for helping Billy seal the deal and all, but _first_ he needed to make sure Teddy wasn’t just dicking his brother around. Billy wasn’t the kind of guy who could just shrug off that disappointment…but he also wasn’t the kind of guy who could spot a player at fifty paces.

Good thing Billy’d brought his better twin along.

Soft grass rustled beneath his feet. The sun was a little higher now, pushing up over the treeline. It was unbearably beautiful, even without the haze of exhaust fumes and light pollution Tommy was so used to. It filled his chest with an uncomfortable sweetness and made him hyperaware of each breath he pulled, each sound he heard, each moment of time that slid through him beat after beat after beat, like all this nature had pulled together to create a song out of nothing.

It made him feel small and _connected_ and unaccountably philosophical. Like full-on Walden and shit.

Which, naturally, made him feel the itch to do something to break the perfect peace of the day.

…good thing the brain trust at monster camp had given him a sword.

Teddy wasn’t moving, unaware of danger at his six. Grinning, Tommy began to raise his sword in both hands, moving _slowly_ across the grass to keep from making a sound. He tensed his muscles, already hearing the satisfying _wallop_ this thing would make coming down, and swung with all his strength at one of Teddy’s big green biceps. It wasn’t that he wanted to hurt Billy’s boyfriend-not-boyfriend, but it’d be nice to start this inevitable conversation/confrontation from a place of power.

Also? It was just fucking _satisfying._

But as Tommy swung with a quarter of his strength, several things happened at once.

The foam sword cut the air with thoroughly satisfying heft, _heavy_ and yet right in his hands. Fuck, if it felt like this for everyone, Tommy could get why they all kept coming back to do it again and again: in that moment, he felt like a warrior, like a killer, taking down his unaware prey in a vicious battle of might-vs-right.

Of course, it turned out his unaware pretty wasn’t exactly all that _unaware_. Just as Tommy’s sword was arcing down, Teddy twisted and rolled in a show of easy dexterity that spoke of sports teams and years of _first chosen for kickball_. He popped up onto his feet less than a second later like some kind of Medieval Times ninja, already swinging his own sword (had that already been in his hands, or had he just grabbed it that fast? Fuck!) around and down to take advantage of Tommy’s momentary surprise.

Their blades met with a solid _whump_ , those blue eyes meeting his head-on, so much _focus_ on Hulkling’s green face that, yeah, all right, Tommy _definitely_ got it. Half-orc barbarian-paladin cross-class or not, Hulkling was hot as hell.

And _strong_. Tommy had to scuttle back a couple of paces when Teddy pushed against the pressure of their crossed blades. His feet skid across the dew-wet grass, and fuck, fuck, Teddy was swinging _again_ , sword making a solid arc toward his exposed flank.

A vain attempt to dart out of the way just got him tangled up in his own feet, usual dexterity unused to the intricacies of one-on-one combat. The (at this point inevitable) smack of sword against skin wasn’t painful, but it was startling enough to have Tommy jolting, spinning, _falling_ in an ungainly sprawl—his own sword spilling out of his hands as he tried to catch himself. The world seemed to tumble in a whirl of green and blue until it reoriented itself into the impossible: Tommy on his back, limbs akimbo, head ringing. Teddy standing over him like some knight out of a fairy tale, point of his foam blade just barely grazing Tommy’s throat.

“Eight,” Teddy said, as if that made any sense.

“Uh,” Tommy said, blinking owlishly up at him. “More like a solid ten.”

Teddy paused, then frowned. Tilted his head. “I’m not sure where you’re getting that math,” he admitted. “This is a plus-three sword.”

Right. Sure. Like that made any sense. “Okay, fine, we’ll go with eight. Want to let me up?”

Something happened to Teddy then—his shoulders came back and his expression hardened, becoming _older_ somehow, as if Tommy were watching him become someone else before his eyes. The way he held his body shifted subtly from teenager to warrior, and it was enough to send an unexpected chill down Tommy’s spine.

“Why did you attack me?” Teddy—nope, definitely Hulkling now—asked, his voice a low rumble. He kept the sword at Tommy’s throat, not letting him move an inch.

Which…yeah, this was getting really uncomfortably sexy. When he got back to his familiar reality again, Tommy needed to do some serious self-reflection. “I wanted you at a disadvantage when I started grilling you about my brother,” Tommy said, going for honest. At this point, why not?

The reaction was immediate and obvious. Teddy pulled back, that strong warrior snapping back into awkward kid again. His sword arm dropped, and Tommy quickly rolled away, popping back up onto his feet so they could do at on equal footing, at least. (He also ducked to grab his fallen sword, because, well, priorities.)

“Billy?” Teddy said, then immediately shook his head. Because, yeah, obviously Billy. “I mean. Um. I.”

Back by the “inn”, there was a sudden eruption of roars and screeching yells. Doors slammed open. Monsters swarmed. PCs shouted and tumbled out of their beds, reaching for weapons. The commotion was intense, drowning out anything he would have said—and, of course, instantly drawing Teddy’s gaze.

Curious whether he could get away with it, Tommy took that moment of distraction to attack again. He swung up with his blade, the angle not-great but not impossible either. And yet Teddy must’ve been some kind of freaking savant or something, because he easily—gracefully!—stepped back from the attack and brought his own sword down to shunt Tommy’s aside before swinging again a millisecond later. Tommy winced at the impact of foam against his shoulder, trying not to scowl when Teddy simply said,

“Eight.”

“Damn it,” Tommy muttered, shifting his grip on his sword to rub angrily at his arm. “How the fuck did you get so fast?”

Both of Teddy’s brows were up, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to make of the situation. Of Tommy. “A lot of practice,” he said. “You’re not really here as an NPC, are you?”

“What gave that away?” Tommy joked. He was wearing green rags and carrying a sword; he had green face paint smeared across his cheeks; he looked like a freaking idiot. But yeah, no, none of the rules and numbers and any of that nonsense had sunk in much, and he really was more interested in the boy over the warrior (as uncomfortably attractive as he found that warrior.)

“How much you suck at it,” Teddy said, but he grinned when he said it, dimples flashing at the corners of his mouth, posture relaxing into something more casual. Tommy could still sense the nerves lingering about him, but Teddy had clearly decided to pretend like he was okay with whatever Tommy had come to grill him about. Tommy couldn’t decide whether the casual affect was annoying or impressive. “Come on,” he added over the roar of battle drifting from the other side of the cabins. “Let’s go to neutral territory. If you want to talk, it’s better to do it there.”

He had to snort at that. “Neutral territory,” he said. “Inns. Monster camp. This whole thing is pretty crazy, you know that?” But he fell in beside Teddy—he even obediently lifted his sword to cover his head to signal they were OOC. Weirdly, it felt less, well, _weird_ doing it now. And he supposed it even made a certain amount of sense: this way, he and Teddy were able to cross the green and head into the main cabin without getting attacked once. Mission Control was attached to one side, monster camp an offshoot of that, but in here the ceilings were high and chairs were grouped together for easy conversation.

A girl wearing badass spiked armor from head to toe was just stepped outside as they slipped in, and Tommy had to turn to watch her go. Once she stepped past that threshold, it was like she became another person (the way Teddy had become Hulkling, some inner switch getting flipped inside her)—frightening, cold, and, yeah, also almost _unbearably_ hot.

…he was starting to wonder if he had a fetish or something.

“Huh,” Tommy said before swinging back to Teddy. The other boy was setting his sword down onto a nearby table, muscles uncoiling as he stretched. For a brief instant, Tommy was tempted to try attacking him again, but he pushed that thought aside before it could crystalize. As much as he wanted to get the best of Teddy (after getting his ass handed to him twice in a row!), even he was beginning to feel like maybe the rules of this place were worth paying attention to. There was a sort of _ease_ to this room with its big windows and high pine wood rafters and endless views out onto the green. A touchstone to the reality he’d left behind: Cheetos in big plastic bowls, coolers stacked on top of each other, comfortable chairs just waiting for him to settle back and lose himself for a bit. Hook up a tv and playstation and he’d be set.

…for a little while, at least, because whether he wanted to admit it or not, he sort of really wanted to get back _out_ there. The other monsters probably needed his help.

“Okay,” Tommy decided, swinging to face where Teddy had settled into one of the knotted wood rocking chairs. “Let’s make this quick. What’re your intentions toward my stupid twin brother?”


	8. Kate

She was going to kill him.

She just had to find him first.

“Come on,” Kate muttered beneath her breath, moving through the dark underbrush. The forest was vast, split here and there by well-worn paths and a lazily winding stream. It threaded through the trees like an abandoned ribbon, surprising the unaware with sudden bends and turns.

But she was beyond surprising; she knew this place like she knew each carefully fletched arrow, and her footfalls barely made a sound as she traveled from shadow to shadow.

Overhead, a bird called, then burst into flight. The sun was just beginning to push feeble rays through the leaves, dappling her skin-and-feathers. It felt…good. Comforting, especially after the night she’d had. She wondered if Clint was somewhere out there, lifting his face toward the sun, feeling that same bone-deep comfort.

She hoped not; the _fucker_.

“Come on,” she said again, sweeping the small clearing with a glance. Tracking any one person through this mess was next to impossible thanks to all the hikers (and LARPers) who criss-crossed its face on a daily basis, but Clint’s footprints were unique enough that she was willing to take a chance. More than that, she knew his habits better than most—better, almost, than his own boyfriend—so she let her instincts lead her from fork to fork to fork. Hunting. Hyper-focused.

Branches lightly brushed against her skin and tried to tangle in her braid, but Kate ducked and wove between their grasping fingers easily. She was pushing aside a lithe branch when she happened to glance up from the hidden path and to the side—catching sight of a peculiar feather.

Dark blue, almost violet. Amethyst at the tips. Familiar deep to the bone, and, “Now I’ve got you,” Kate whispered, reaching out to pluck the feather from its tangle of branches. Just to be sure, she lifted its pointed quill to her nose and filled her lungs and—yup—there was the recognizable tang of spirit gum.

He’d passed this way. And if he’d been careless enough to leave one token, she was willing to bet he’d leave another.

This time beginning to smile—humming to herself lightly, just beneath her breath—Kate renewed her search. The sun rose higher and higher as the minutes passed, spotlighting her way as she wove with renewed vigor through the familiar underbrush. She _felt_ like Hawkeye in these moments. Felt a little wild, a little unpredictable, instincts honed to a razor edge and eyes always, always moving as she assessed threats, angles, opportunities.

Success.

Stopping at the foot of one of the thick trees near the northwest quadrant of the forest—far enough away from camp that most never found their way here—Kate looked up, and up, and up into the swaying green branches. There was a muddy footprint about three feet up its pitted trunk, smeared but still recognizable: the unique two-toed shoes the Hawkeyes preferred making strange tattoos as they skid up toward the nearest bough. He would have jumped up to reach it, Kate figured, then found purchase against the trunk with a traitor foot, never realizing it would give him away in the end.

Well, that and the _very_ faint snore she could only hear because the damn thing had kept her up at night more times than she cared to remember.

Coming to a decision quickly, Kate scooted back away from the tree and along the path, squinting up against the riot of green. He would have taken care to camouflage himself, of course, but she knew all his tricks (the same way he knew all of hers) and it didn’t take more than a moment before she spotted the tell-tale shape and shadow. Even better, one of his legs was crooked down against the widest part of the branch, just visible to someone with keen eyes and a killer’s instinct.

Silently congratulating herself for a job well done, Kate unslung her bow and settled easily into stance. The early morning would be making her sluggish except that she’d been out all night _hunting_ his traitor ass, and the fires of indignation kept her nice and limber as Kate drew an arrow, aimed for the meatiest part of Clint _fucking_ Barton’s thigh, and let fly.

_Twang!_

The arrow hit its mark with deadly accuracy, nerf tip bouncing harmlessly off lycra-clad skin. But she’d pulled the bow back far enough that he certainly _felt_ it, nerf or not, and Kate couldn’t swallow back her cackle when Clint jerked awake with a yell, tree branch he’d been cozily napping in swaying in a violence of leaves and feathers.

“What the _hell_ , Katie?” he demanded, voice sleep-muddled. He caught his balance, though she’d never really thought he was in any danger of falling out of that tree. It took a lot more than a rude awakening to tumble a carney kid like Clint.

“Good morning, asshole,” Kate called. “Sleep well?”

The leaves trembled again, and she could only just make out Clint sitting up, both legs drawn protectively against his chest. “Sure,” he drawled, still sounding a little muddled. He was never fully awake until he’d had his coffee. “Until some psycho woke me up with an _arrow to the thigh_.”

“Just consider yourself lucky I couldn’t reach your ass,” she said. Then: “Climb down. I want to yell at you for not telling me Steve was stepping away.”

There was a long, heavy pause; she could picture Clint’s face so easily in her mind’s eye. They’d been partners ever since she’d first started coming here and he’d taken her under his (literal and metaphorical) wing. She’d slept across from him night after night, watched his back, saved his life, cried over his death, and rejoiced in his resurrection— _twice_! They were sworn brothers, soulmates in every way but the romantic, and she loved him more than she loved her own family most days.

But she really was going to knock his teeth in for this, so help her.

“I’m waiting,” Kate said. “Make me wait too long, and I’ll shoot your berries off the bush.” She drew and nocked another arrow, just so he knew she meant business.

 _That_ had him moving, swinging his legs over the edge of the thick branch before he lightly jumped down. He landed with enviable grace, feathers rustling, his own bow close. She wondered, briefly, whether he’d draw on her, but Clint just straightened and cocked his head, blue eyes finding hers across the span of twenty paces.

He wet his lower lip.

“So,” he said— _conversationally_ , as if he hadn’t been avoiding her all night. “How’s it going?”

Kate let the nocked arrow fly.

 _Twang!_ It whizzed through the air toward her target, nerf tip very nearly kissing his heart. But of course she hadn’t drawn fully on purpose, and of course he caught the arrow before it could _actually_ make impact, hands moving so fast that even now (all these years later) she couldn’t help but be impressed. _Damn_ him.

Clint looked down at the arrow in his hand, then back up at her. “That good, huh?” he asked, before twirling it around and offering it to her point-first, one brow quirking.

Kate slung her bow back over her shoulder and stalked to him. She snatched the arrow out of her partner’s hand and waggled it threateningly in his face. “ _Why didn’t you tell me_ that Steve was stepping down?” she demanded, all the pent-up rage and confusion and despair tumbling out of her at once. She’d stood there on the green with all the others, listening in horror as Steve explained that he had to step down—that the entire senior staff was disassembling—that this would be the last weekend they would ever have together.

 _“I’m sorry,_ ” Steve had said, looking out amongst them. He’d looked sorry, too, as if nothing in the world hurt him more than disappointing them. _“It’s been so many good years, and we’ve made so many good memories, but we can’t do it anymore. It’s time for us to hang up our shields and rest.”_

PCs had looked around at each other in stunned amazement, murmurs rising and falling, rising and falling, as the realization sank in. This was it. This was their last time together.

Arms around her waist, Kate searched for familiar faces, wanting comfort, even as her mind rioted. This…this was the only place she could come where she felt truly herself. There were no fancy dinners or veiled expectations or subtle threats here. There was just Hawkeye, and the forest, and the _freedom_ of living on the fringes of society where nothing and no one could ever dream of stopping her from being and doing exactly what she wanted.

Losing that…

_God._

And then, casting about, she’d spotted Clint in the distance, standing next to Natasha. Their heads were tipped together, as they often were, but neither was saying anything. Even more, neither looked surprised.

Clint had known this was coming. He’d been prepared for the worst. And the absolute _motherfucker_ hadn’t warned her.

“Katie,” Clint said now, slowly lifting both hands at whatever rage he saw brewing on her face. “Think twice before you do anything I’m going to regret.”

“Oh, I’m thinking all right,” she said. “Twice, three times, four times. I’ve been thinking about it all night.”

He winced. “Look,” he said, “I would have told you. I _would_ have,” he added at her enraged snarl. “But I was sworn to secrecy by Nat, and as much as you terrify me, she terrifies me more.”

She scoffed, half-tempted to get up in his space and really let him know how ticked off she was. But then what? PvP had never been her style, especially with him. They’d been partnered up for too long for her to hold onto the grudge, no matter how much she wanted to. (And besides, Natasha really _was_ incredibly frightening when she put her mind to it.)

“You could have given me some kind of clue,” she said instead, going to the tree he’d chosen as hideout and easily jumping up to grab the lowest-hanging branch. She began to pull herself up, one foot scrabbling against the trunk looking for purchase. Almost predictably, Clint caught her other foot and used it to give her a boost, until she was easily twisting around the straddling the biggest branch.

Some of his stuff was still up here, nest-like. Kate rolled her eyes even as she leaned down, offering him a hand up.

“ _Something_ ,” she continued, bicep straining as he let her take a good chunk of his weight, trusting her to handle it. And really, that’s why she put up with him despite wanting to fling her arrows at him nine times out of ten: he _trusted_ her. He got her. He knew she was capable and didn’t play any weird gendered bullshit with her. When they were out here in the forest together, they were simply _Hawkeye_. Now if she could just manage to get her father and all her supposed friends back home (Billy notwithstanding) to treat her the same way…

“…really, really couldn’t have,” Clint was saying, swinging his leg around to get comfortable. “Not if I wanted to live. Nat was _serious_ about keeping a lid on everything.”

She sighed and leaned back. Cocooned in leafy green fronds, they were practically in a whole other world; dappled shadows and light played across their skin and feathers. One seemed determined to molt, but she pressed down on the spirit gum and hoped for the best. Touchups could wait until later. “Do you really think they meant it?” she mused. “Some people have been speculating that it’s part of the plot. Or a ploy to get people worked up and off-balance. Or…”

She didn’t even need Clint shaking his head to know how unlikely all that was.

Clint sighed. “Cap wouldn’t do that,” he said. “Not for a publicity stunt, and not to shake everyone up. He’s too much a straight-shooter. No,” he added, leaning back against the trunk, legs swinging, “if Steve says he’s backing out, then I believe him. And I guess I understand, even. It’s…a lot. All of this, all of us. It wears on you. And he’s been doing it longer than anyone before him.”

There was…no arguing that, actually. Steve had outlasted everyone who came before him, putting his heart and soul into the game and really making it something special. It had grown in leaps and bounds under his leadership, membership tripling, participating at the highest it had ever been. The sheer emersion alone… The _plots_ he ran… The _details_ …

 _The sleepless nights_ , Kate had to admit to herself, plucking absently at yellow-tipped leaves. _The worry. The endless troubleshooting. The time away from his life, his classes, his everything._

“I suppose,” Kate had to admit, even though she hated it. “I just wish…”

“Yeah,” Clint said when she didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t actually have to; he understood better than anyone just how important a place like this was. Rules against mixing OOC and IC-life aside, she’d seen the little shithole he called home. She knew exactly what he was missing out there in the world, where he didn’t have a bow and arrow to act as a barrier between reality and his sharp tongue.

Where would Clint go to let off steam now? Where would _she_ go, when her family and all their demands got the better of her. What would they do without this world to escape to…to create together? A safe space where orcs and dragons took the place of everyday nightmares they couldn’t so easily slay?

Kate sighed and shifted forward, letting momentum carry her until she was thunking her forehead lightly against Clint’s shoulder. He smelled like the feathers and glue and stage makeup and leather they used to create their costumes, and the familiar stench of that—underlaid by fresh air and the warm musk of sun-heated skin—filled her greedy lungs to bursting.

If this was going to be their last weekend together like this, then she wasn’t going to waste it on anger and regrets. She was going to _wallow_ , Kate decided, in everything she loved most about LARPing. With her bow and arrows in hand and her partner at her back, she was going to live every moment she had to its utter fullness. Hunting their foes, swinging into battle, taking no fucking mercy the way only they could.

And when the weekend drew to a close and she had to say goodbye to this escape from reality for good…at least she’d know she gave Hawkeye one hell of a swan song.


	9. Teddy

_“What’re your intentions toward my stupid twin brother?”_

Teddy froze. Like instant, complete, utter-statue _froze_. He could feel his eyes go wide, and if his skin wasn’t caked in so much waterproof body paint, he was pretty sure he’d be pale. If this were an anime, a giant sweat drop would be appearing above his head, and _yikes_. He’d had a feeling Billy’s twin was a bit more grab-em-by-the-balls than Billy himself, but this was even more direct than he’d been prepared for.

Though honestly? He didn’t feel particularly prepared for much.

“Uh,” Teddy said, intelligently. Eloquently. It was funny: he’d gotten to the point where he was pretty good at off-the-cuff. LARPing was a lot like improv, and over the years he’d become…if not a master, then at least an advanced journeyman at _yes, and_ ’ing his way through scenes. He was pretty sure that was the genesis of Wiccan-and-Hulkling, anyway. He and Wiccan just played off each other well, acting and reacting in scene after scene until they were a unit. A team.

Until nothing in either this life or his “real” life made as much sense as the relationship building between them. _I love you._ God, he’d actually said the words, and Wiccan had said them back. He’d never been happier than he was that day…and he’d never been more a wreck than he’d been the day after, back in Brooklyn, staring up at his ceiling and wondering what it all meant.

Hulkling and Wiccan worked together; they made sense together. Would Teddy and Billy? Would Billy even…want them to?

And Tommy was watching him, arms crossed, visibly impatient.

Teddy groaned and covered his face with his hands. “I don’t,” he began, flustered. It was _so weird_ looking at this kid and seeing Billy but not-Billy. Especially considering the direction of this conversation. “I don’t know how to answer that.”

Tommy snorted and crossed to a nearby chair. He plunked himself into it, kicking at Teddy’s ankle until Teddy dropped his hands. “Why don’t you do it anyway?” Tommy said, all brassy demands. He leaned back in his chair, both brows raised.

There was something admirable about that cockiness. Teddy could just picture the kind of PC Tommy would eventually become. (Well, the PC he _would have_ become, if the game weren’t ending.)

“Wiccan and I,” Teddy began, because that was always the easiest place to start.

Tommy kicked out at his ankle again, harder this time. “I don’t care about _you and Wiccan_ ,” he said. “I care about _Billy._ Billy Kaplan. Did you even know that was his full name?”

He hadn’t. He wasn’t supposed to. IC and OOC were sacred to Steve, and the rules had always been clear: no crossing the streams. No matter how badly you wanted to track down your RP partner and see him in his day-to-day life (maybe ask him to the movies; maybe share a tub of popcorn and accidentally-totally-not-accidentally brush knuckles and meet eyes in the dark; maybe walk him home and…), that’s not how things were supposed to go.

Teddy wet his lower lip. “I’m not supposed to ask,” he said.

Tommy snorted. “Well, good thing you’re not asking,” he countered. “Billy Kaplan. 30 Morningside Drive, apartment 212, Upper West Side. Phone number—”

“Wait,” Teddy said, torn between desperately wanting to know and just as desperately wanting Billy to be the one to tell him.

“I hope you’re good at memorizing shit,” Tommy said, talking over him. “Phone number 212-555-8960. Email [wiccawiccawack@gmail.com](mailto:wiccawiccawack@gmail.com). Now,” he added, crossing his arms and leaning back, “you don’t have an excuse not to reach out. But you still haven’t answered my question: what are your intentions?”

He was getting the distinct impression that talking to Tommy was like boxing the wind. “My… _intentions_ ,” he said, shaking his head.

“Yeah.” Those eyes, familiar yet not, were fixed on him. “Are you just doing the whole LARP thing? Or are you actually _interested_ in him? In _Billy_ , not Wiccan. Because I hate to tell you, but there’s a big difference.”

Wasn’t that true of all of them? Teddy knew _he_ felt different IC and OOC. Bigger, stronger, more self-confident. Honed to an edge and able to say all the things Teddy Altman had never been able to say. To do. To _experience_.

Hulkling would have been able to answer Tommy from the beginning. _Of course_ , he’d respond, all conviction. _Of course I care for your brother. Of course I want to_ … Court him? Okay, maybe even Hulkling wouldn’t say it like that.

Date him? Be with him? Know him? Just be freaking _near_ him, that quicksilver smile igniting something deep and lonely inside Teddy’s gut?

…something. He’d say _something_ , something good, something Teddy never could, but _fuck_ if Teddy knew how to translate the character in his head to an actual conversation with an actual person who was getting actually annoyed with him the longer Teddy was quiet, those pale brows drawing into a deeper and deeper scowl as Teddy struggled to think of words to explain how he felt. What he wanted.

“I know,” he finally managed, just as Tommy popped up to his feet. It came out in a desperate rush, but at least it _came out_. Funny-not-funny just how impossible it was to say the things he really meant. “I know he is. I…I like it.”

_I like it_. God, he sounded so stupid. But it must have been at least in the ballpark of what Tommy was looking for, because the other boy didn’t stomp away. He didn’t sit back down again either, though, body language firmly closed off as he glowered at Teddy—a living embodiment of impatience.

“You like it,” he said, waspish. “You like _Billy_?”

Teddy blew out a breath, heart hammering an uneven tempo in his chest. “Yeah,” he said, feeling his cheeks heat. He couldn’t quite bring himself to meet Tommy’s eyes, but he had a feeling the other kid wouldn’t like it much if Teddy looked entirely away, either. “Uh, I mean, I do. Yeah.” _Come on Teddy._ “A lot.”

The words hung there between them, practically vibrating in the air. Big and frightening and impossible to ignore or deny or _take back_. Not that he wanted to. There wasn’t much Teddy wanted _less_ than to turn back the clock to a few minutes ago, with the truth bottled up inside.

However Tommy took this, at least… At least it was out there. At least he’d been egged on into taking that first step they’d so far been denied.

Tommy was silent. And silent some more. And silent _even longer,_ eyes narrowed on him. Then: “…you’re as hopeless as he is,” Tommy finally decided after studying him for what felt like the ass-end of forever. “Which is good, I guess: at least this way, the two of you can start off on the same footing. Okay,” he added, gesturing toward Teddy. It was an odd, fluid motion, more at home in an RP than RL. “You’ve got my permission to date my stupid brother.”

Teddy swore his heart was going to come racing out of his chest. “Just like that?” he asked.

“Just like that,” Tommy said on the beginnings of a wicked smile. He crossed his arms and rocked back onto his heels. “I mean, the two of you are actually going to have to get off your armored asses and do something about all this, but at least I had a chance to give you a once-over before Billy got his heart broken. I’d kill you if you did that, by the way,” he added, so very casual. “Kill you if you hurt him.”

And what could Teddy say to that but, “Okay,” with utter sincerity? Because he couldn’t imagine a world where he hurt Billy…Kaplan, Billy Kaplan; God, it was good to have that little bit of information about the boy he’d been crushing out on for so long… Anyway. He couldn’t imagine hurting Billy, and if he did manage to hurt him, he probably had whatever Tommy planned coming.

Tommy’s brows bounced. “Okay?” he echoed, visibly surprised. Then, immediately shifting into easy acceptance, quicksilver in his moods: “ _Okay_ , good. Awesome. Glad we had this chat.” He paused, then glanced around as if taking in the high-ceilinged room. “So, next time we meet out in the field, it’ll be in the game, right? Uh, _In-Character_?”

“Yeah,” Teddy said, pushing himself up to his feet. He got the sense this bizarre (wonderful) conversation was about to come to an abrupt end. Just a few minutes in Tommy’s presence and he could already sense the lightning-fast shifts in his mood and patience. “Out there, when you’re dressed like that, you’re my enemy.”

Tommy jerked his chin up, stubborn. “Well good,” he said. “It’ll be fun to kick your ass.”

Settling back into Hulkling’s unshakable self-confidence—his bedrock strength, his _belief_ —like sliding into a favorite denim jacket, Teddy snagged his sword and slung it into his sheath, movements enviably methodical. He could handle this blade in his sleep, even if he could barely keep the rest of his life together. “It will certainly be fun watching you try,” he said simply, subtly lifting a brow at Tommy’s exaggerated face. He half expected Tommy to try to take a swing at him now, rules be damned…but maybe the other boy really was starting to get into the spirit of all this, because he resisted the impulse even as he gathered up his own weapon.

“All right,” he said, tugging at the green cloth about his neck. “I’m going to get back to slaughtering people in the inn. I’ll see you around, _Hulkling_.”

“I seriously doubt you will,” Teddy teased. Then, in a quick moment of earnest honesty: “Oh, and…thanks. You’re a good brother; Billy’s lucky to have you looking out for him.”

Tommy flicked his hand in a dismissive gesture, but there was a pleased flush high on his cheeks. “ _Whatever_ ,” he said, moving around the gathered chairs back toward the door and the sounds of combat. The main lawn had erupted into action, swords swinging, bags of bird seed flying, numbers and spells being shouted as the half-awake heroes fought the horde of goblins come to snatch them from their sleep.

“Fireball 12!” someone shouted just as Tommy opened the door. “Fireball 12!”

“Resistance class 3!” one of the bosses—Chase, grinning broadly, blonde hair a tousled mess as he danced around the chaos. “Half damage!”

“Damn it, stop casting fireball and get him with chain lightning!” a familiar voice snapped; Eli, sword swinging, shield in hand. “There’s a whole freaking line of them _right there_!”

Tommy paused, watching the chaos with a cocked head. He sighed, then laughed. “I can’t believe we do this for fun,” he shot back over his shoulder, all unsubtle mockery. Then he charged into the fray with his sword swinging, rushing to David’s side as the level-headed second of monster camp helped his charges regroup.

Watching him go—watching him fling himself into the battle with a laughing howl—Teddy could only shake his head. No reason to point out to Tommy the obvious, not until much later, when they looked back on this weekend as something approaching friends, and Teddy could rub his face into the fact that this, _this_ had been the moment Tommy had gone from outsider to full-throated participant.

Because whether Tommy was willing to admit it to himself or not yet…he’d said _we_.


	10. Billy

The sky was bleeding steadily from pink-and-orange into a pale, hazy blue. Puffs of white clouds drifted overhead, and soft grass tickled his cheek. He lay sprawled across the ground, heart pounding out an uneven percussion, limbs inelegantly akimbo.

This? Was not Wiccan’s finest hour.

“Status?” one of the goblins asked as he passed by, picking his way between the path of bodies and occasionally stopping to loot.

“Unconscious,” Billy said. He turned his face, squinting up against the rising sun. David. Of course. “Two successful death saving throws.”

_That_ was pure luck on his part. He’d reacted on pure instinct from the moment he’d been startled out of sleep by raucous bellows and growls. He’d nearly rolled right out of his bunk bed (which would have been disastrous, considering he had the top) in his first muddled confusion, grabbing for his cape and spells before he’d fully opened his eyes. His costume was only half-pulled-on and his diadem was straight-up missing…which accounted for some of the heavy damage he’d taken in the first frontal assault. Dang low Armor Class.

David cocked his head, studying him. “You know I’m going to have to finish you off,” he said without any real malice or regret. David, like Steve and the other DMs, was a stickler for the rules. It’s what made him such a good lieutenant at monster camp.

Billy sighed. Resurrection was going to be tricky this time around, since he’d been dead often enough over the years that the difficulty for bringing him back had begun to creep up. But there was no avoiding it now. “I understand,” he said, then closed his eyes and tipped back his chin, prepared for the killing blow. Going unconscious on the field when he was surrounded by friends wasn’t usually a problem, but the early morning attack had scattered them all to the winds (which had probably been Steve’s plan all along.) Anyone who could have rescued him was either unconscious themselves or long gone.

There was no one left to heal him, and David wasn’t the type to just walk on by and pretend he hadn’t seen him laying there. This death—and the resurrection ritual he’d have to undergo if he wanted to bring Wiccan back—was inevitable.

The tip of David’s ax touched his chest. “Auto-crit,” he said. “Two failed death saves.”

Which made two successes and two failures. He only needed three failures before he was a goner, and a goblin as fastidious about his duty as David wouldn’t leave a powerful spellslinger alive to track down his clan for vengeance. He lifted the blade again, ready to press it to Billy’s chest.

“Healing word!”

The packet of bird seed—a bright, spring green; he _knew it_ , without even opening his eyes—smacked Billy right on the forehead. Billy flinched, but instantly rolled up and away; alive, if just barely. He knew that voice, knew that spell, knew _exactly_ what he’d see as he staggered back with his cape askew and his hand reaching for his own pouch of magic.

Even so, he had to pause to take it in, heart racing for a completely new reason now.

Hulkling strode across the field, sword drawn, eyes locked on the goblin who’d almost ended his lover’s life. His jaw was set, and there was vengeance in his eyes. One hand lifted, splayed and pointing toward David’s heart. “Vow of enmity,” Hulkling growled.

_Growled_.

Fuck, but Wiccan shuddered at the sound.

The goblin made a hiss of displeasure, hefting his ax. He didn’t look back toward Wiccan—his mistake—focusing his full attention on the half-orc charging his way. Hulkling’s greatsword swung with a solid _whoosh_ of air, and the goblin responded just in time for their weapons to meet with a deafening _clang_.

Wiccan reached out—one hand gripping his side, blood seeping between his fingers, the other pointing with deadly aim toward the foolish goblin’s back. The words of his spell tasted like fire on his tongue, and he swore he could feel the lick of arcane flames against his skin as the glimmering red mote flew toward its target.

The damage was instant and undeniable. Flames licked around the burning goblin’s tattered armor, climbing ivy-like up his spine, his arms, his neck. He panicked, caught between Hulkling and Wiccan, uncertain which way to go— _fleeing_ at random with a pained hiss of breath.

Hulkling swung his greatsword around as the goblin darted for safety, cleaving it in one easy blow. The deep wound instantly festered, divine energy burning with his vow of enmity—deadly, _deadly_ , gods, but Hulkling was so beautifully _deadly_ on the field. The goblin crumpled to the ground with a strangled cry, twitching once before going still at Hulkling’s feet. Blood spilled in a dark halo, but Hulkling didn’t seem to notice. His gaze swept the battlefield once, looking for danger…

…and then he was turning, sword dropping from nerveless fingers, and Wiccan was the only thing he could see.

“Gods,” Hulkling breathed, rushing across the battle-pitted ground toward him. He caught Wiccan up in a fierce embrace, pulling back an instant later with a low hiss of breath. “I am sorry,” he said, hands lifting to frame Wiccan’s face. His palms were calloused from years of wielding his sword, and the familiar rasp against Wiccan’s skin set his pulse to racing. “I am so sorry—you are injured.”

“Barely,” Wiccan lied, swaying helplessly toward Hulkling’s warmth. This close, he could smell leather and skin and sunshine. He could _see_ beads of sweat trailing from the (tight, oh-so wonderfully tight; Hulkling must have grown in strength since having his armor commissioned) bands of leather criss-crossing bare skin. He had a dizzying desire to press his lips against one of those trailing beads—maybe follow it with his tongue—and the idea had him flushing hotter than the growing warmth of the morning could hope to hide. “I’ve had worse.”

A soft huff of laughter. “That I have seen,” he murmured, head tipped down toward Wiccan’s, his shoulders so wide they all but blocked out the sky. “And yet I would prefer to never see you hurt again. My heart,” he added, using the endearment that was still so wonderfully _new_ ; a result of their oh-so recent confession, “your life matters a great deal to me. I would see you treat it with more care.”

_My heart._ Wiccan was increasingly certain his knees would give out. Just…collapse beneath him, sending him tumbling inelegantly back to the lawn. He tried clearing his throat. “Oh, well, you know. In that case, I suppose I could use some healing,” he said, voice sounding suspiciously thin. That’s what happened, he supposed, when your heart was racing so fast that you could practically feel yourself shaking apart.

Hulkling studied him for a long, long minute, thumbs brushing soothingly across his cheeks. It felt so incredible to be touched like this. To be able to reach out (fingers trembling) and touch Hulkling in return. They were in love; he could _feel_ it. He could sense the electricity of that thrumming emotion thread between them, and yeah, wow, okay, he was pretty sure Teddy was about to kiss him now.

Hulkling. Not Teddy.

…but either way, _holy shit_ , blue eyes had dropped to his lips.

Billy-slash-Wiccan (struggling to keep in character as he _felt_ the heat sweeping across his cheeks and down his chest, toes curling helplessly) stood mere inches away from the hottest boy-slash-half-orc he’d ever met, _hands splayed across his chest_. Like, move his pinky even a _little_ and he’d be touching a nipple. He could feel the fast-fast-fast thrum of a heartbeat beneath his fingers, and he thought, dizzily, _Do it. It’s all right, just do it._

Screw in-character vs. out-of-character right now. Billy couldn’t even hope to keep it straight anymore. He was _in Teddy’s arms_ , face tipped up and Teddy’s tipped down, those calloused fingertips sliding up to cup the back of his head; threading through dark tangles of hair because _this was actually happening_. Billy was about to get his first kiss in a park up along the Hudson, with sounds of shouting in the far distance and David pretending to play dead just five feet away.

Whatever. David could watch. David could get fucking popcorn and give them his critique of the whole show later if he wanted, because Teddy’s eyes were heavy on his lips, Teddy’s fingers were tangled in his hair, Teddy’s hips were brushing his, and he was coming closer, he was leaning in, he was—

—he was glancing up sharply at a sudden loud noise twenty or so feet to their west, raised voices shouting damage rolls and spell stats in a wild flurry.

Because oh, right. The battle wasn’t _quite_ over yet.

Billy almost cursed when Teddy pulled away, putting safe distance between them. Teddy went to snag his sword from where he’d let it topple to the ground, wary gaze scanning their immediate surroundings for danger. “We should get you to a healer,” he said, shouldering the blade and turning back to Billy with a worried look in his eyes. “Some of their blades carry a strange corruption; I would feel more at ease knowing some dark sickness is not taking root in you. But first.”

His heart gave a pathetically eager thump when Teddy—no, definitely Hulkling now—stepped closer again, but Hulkling merely passed the pad of his thumb lightly between Wiccan’s brows, sending a healing spell shivering through him. “Cure wounds, twelve points,” he said, translating in the game to a little bit more vitality filling Billy’s limbs. “I’d do more, but if we can make it to the healer unaccosted…”

“Better to save your spells,” Wiccan agreed, violently pushing aside his disappointment.

He gave a grave nod. “This way,” Hulkling said. He turned away but stayed close, moving with a grace that surprised most people who met him. There were assumptions made at first glance due to his orc heritage—assumptions Hulkling dismantled one by one just by being so unapologetically, wonderfully _himself_.

It was the little things he loved best about Hulkling, Wiccan decided as he followed in his pair-bond’s footsteps. The way he kept reaching back one hand to graze Wiccan’s knuckles as they crept across the battlefield, as if reassuring himself that Wiccan was still there and whole. The way his focus narrowed in on the small clumps of fighting, assessing their threat in a glance. The way he, just…

Everything. There was nothing he didn’t love.

_Except_ , Wiccan thought dryly as they made their way the last little bit to the safe haven of the healer’s square, _for the way he hasn’t kissed me yet. That I could certainly live without._


	11. Tommy

“That was totally fucking _awesome_ ,” Tommy enthused, practically vibrating in place. He was following the rest of the once-goblins back to monster camp, swords held over their heads as they crossed the main green. Even Tommy—who usually flipped off authority and bared his ass to rules of any kind—was playing along now, too buzzed by everything that had happened this morning to much care.

Once he’d returned to the battle, things had been a frenetic, frantic mess. People were fighting in small groups flung here and there, heroes struggling to hold off the invasion. David had looked particularly fierce, swinging in with a fury that belied his otherwise calm appearance. It was incredible watching him go, and almost despite himself, Tommy had felt himself getting _into it_ : the weight of the foam weapon in his hand, the controlled swing of an attack, even the stupid _math_.

(Not that he actually understood the math or what it was supposed represent, but so far shouting _slashing damage 5!_ at everyone as he bonked them over the heads had seemed to work pretty well.)

Anyway, it’d been _great_ , and even though his talk with Teddy had been necessary and fruitful and all that jazz, he found himself wishing he hadn’t missed even a minute of the battle.

Walking next to him, expression once again unruffled now that he wasn’t totally murdering people in their sleep, David adjusted his glasses. “It was a good offensive,” he said. “Well-planned, well-organized, and well-executed.”

“Yeah,” Tommy said, bumping their shoulders together. Funny how fighting side-by-side with someone made you almost feel like sorta-friends. “Like I said: _totally fucking awesome._ When do we get to do it again?”

David chuffed a soft laugh. “Peggy and Steve will have new assignments for us when we get to camp,” he said. “There are a few ongoing character quests, so we may be tapped to be townspeople instead of monsters.”

“What, you mean just try to brawl with them?” It didn’t sound as fun as giant swords, but he figured he’d try anything once.

David shot him a look. “I mean _talk_ with them,” he said. “As an innkeeper with information to sell, or a farmer who witnessed something suspicious happening when he was out tilling his crops. Stuff like that.”

Tommy wrinkled his nose, letting his sword finally drop as they reached the outskirts of monster camp. Several of the other “goblins” had already returned and were busy stripping out of their green rags, chatting happily as smears of face paint were removed. “What, seriously? _Boring_. Why would anyone want to do that?”

David stepped inside and hooked his weapon on its waiting rack, already efficiently beginning to strip. Not that he seemed to do anything _inefficiently_. “Being an NPC isn’t really about what you _want_ to do,” he explained, voice taking on that pedantic air it sometimes got. They’d only known each other a day and Tommy already had him pegged as a bigger nerd than his brother. “It’s about playing whatever role you have to in order to keep the game moving.”

_Keep the game moving_. As if any of them had to care about that now, with all this shutting down.

Weirdly, in the wake of his post-battle joy, that thought…seriously bummed Tommy out. It kind of sucked that he’d found this bizarre place moments before it was gone forever, but, well, whatever. Sometimes life sucked lemons and sometimes it spat balls.

“Why are you an NPC anyway?” Tommy asked, beginning to scrub the green crap off of his face. He leaned toward one of the northern-facing windows so he could spot his reflection, using the glass to help guide the rag David had passed him. “If it’s all farmers and innkeepers and the occasional goblin raid…why not just be a real character and do what you want?”

David made a soft, amused noise as he sat down in one of the wicker chairs, dragging a makeup mirror across the table toward him. “I used to play as a PC, actually,” he said. Outside the cabin, there was some kind of muffled commotion going on: someone (theatrically) calling for help, followed by a low voice speaking in soothing tones. Deeper _inside_ , Peggy called out for one of the NPCs. “Warlock-rogue cross-class,” David continued. “Assassin specialty, with a mask of many faces invocation. I tried to play her neutral—”

“Wait,” Tommy said, spinning to give David a _look_. “You played a chick? You can _do_ that?”

David’s return stare was flat and unimpressed. Tommy shrugged. “That’s cool,” he decided, then turned back to finish scraping green paint off his neck.

“I tried to play her neutral,” David continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “but the story arc back then… It was brutal. We had the Winter Soldier to deal with, and we had to make a lot of really hard decisions if we wanted to try to take him down. In the end, I killed my best friend.” David paused, and when Tommy flicked his gaze up to catch his reflection in the glass, he saw old pain there. _Hurt_ , deep inside, like a wound that had never been given a chance to heal. “I thought it was justified. I thought I had to do it. I thought it was exactly what my character _would have done_ , but… There’s sometimes a point where you and your character merge, and there’s a point where you diverge. The way she thought, talked, justified the cruelest things, was so _easy_ to slip into that it started to freak me out. I didn’t want to live with that in my head.”

He gave a little shrug, dropping his filthy rag onto the table. “So I came to Steve and asked if I could NPC instead. At monster camp, I may play a completely amoral demon, but once the makeup comes off, I no longer feel them under my skin. And that’s… That’s important. Knowing that line, and drawing it for yourself, is important.”

“Uh-huh,” Tommy said, not really getting it. It didn’t seem possible to lose yourself like that—either you felt some way, or you didn’t. Playing a character was just playing _pretend_.

Except…Billy and Teddy had somehow caught feelings while playing Wiccan and Hulkling, right? And that had gotten them both so mixed up, so hopeful and confused, that they barely knew their asses from holes in the ground.

Maybe it was possible to let the two blend too much together if you weren’t careful, Tommy mused as he focused out the window, gaze catching on the drama currently unfolding there. Maybe all of this meant more to some of these kids than just waving around a sword and speaking in Ye Olde English. And maybe—

Maybe—

Maybe that was Teddy carrying Tommy’s stupid brother into a nearby tent, and _what the heck was that all about?_

“Excuse me,” Tommy said, tossing the rag back at David as he skirted around the edge of the room toward the door. “NPC duty is calling.”

David cocked his head, watching him go. “But you haven’t even,” he began—letting his protest end in a sigh when Tommy snagged his sword and waved him off. _Smart man_. Really smart. Other people really needed to start taking lessons from him and, “Oh, hey, borrowing this,” Tommy added, grabbing a cool-looking helm and a blue tunic. He skedaddled before he could be told he couldn’t, slipping into the tunic and slamming on the helm (dragon-shaped; _cool_ ) as he trotted across the green toward a trio of large tents tucked just away from the main building.

They were tall and domed, more like…whats-it, urts or burts or smurts or something…their white canvas walls painted in elaborate swirls of indigo. A woman sat cross-legged in the center of the three, tending to a firepit. She had colorful strings woven into her long red hair and a bit of grey fur tufted along her bodice and trousers. _Hot_.

Tommy stopped by the fire, glancing between the three…oh, yeah, _yurt_. Totally yurts. “Uh,” he said, awkwardly buckling his swordbelt around his waist as the older woman watched him curiously. “I amst here to findest mine brother.”

One red brow lifted. “Oh, aye,” she said, Scottish burr so natural he almost believed it was real. “Was he injured on the field of battle?”

“Sure,” Tommy said. Because honestly, knowing Billy, that seemed likely.

“Then he’ll be in with the healer.” She rose gracefully to her feet, flicking back long red braids. Her eyes were darkly lined with kohl, and yeah, she really was smoking hot too. There was definitely something to this whole sword and leather crap that got his motor running. “But many were left injured this morning and the healer’s services are in high demand. I would need to know more before I could tell you whether you might find your blood relation here.”

Tommy squinted at her. He was pretty sure, _Look, have you seen my stupid twin or not_ wouldn’t go over well. “He’s about my height,” Tommy said. “About my build, except, you know, scrawnier. Wearing a cape? He’s got my face, but I wear it better.” He tried a wink, just to see if that might work on this older woman. She was probably midway through her twenties, so it seemed unlikely, but hey, he was _really_ fucking charming.

The other brow rose, and she crossed her arms. Ooookay, then. Maybe not quite charming enough.

“A big green guy was hauling him in,” Tommy finally settled on.

The woman smiled at _that_. Because of course she did; apparently all the dungeons _and_ the dragons wanted to do Teddy. “Aye,” she said, gesturing to the second—smaller—yurt. “Why did you not say you sought Wiccan? He is being tended to now. He was gravely injured on the field of—”

“Yup,” Tommy said, skirting past her and moving to the tent in question. He reached for its canvas flap. “Goblins are real dicks, huh? Thanks for—hey,” he added in protest when she cut him off, blocking his entrance with her body. That brought them much closer than he’d intended, the earthy scent of leather and fur and patchouli or something rising around him: _heady_. “What’s the big idea?”

“We cannot interrupt the healer mid-meditation,” she scolded, planting a gentle hand to his chest and giving him a push back. “I will see if they are ready to receive you. What is your name, knight?”

Oh, right. A name. This whole roleplaying thing was complicated. “Sir Speed,” Tommy said, because even if this wasn’t the costume he and Billy had cobbled together for his monk or whatever, it was the only name he had waiting and raring to go. “Of the…Nouveaux Jersey Speeds.”

Her brow arched again subtly, but she didn’t call him on it. “Wait here, Sir Speed,” she said, inclining her head before moving into the tent. Yurt. Whatever. He could hear softly murmured voices and the tolling of a…bell? Then she stepped back out, holding the door flap open for him.

“The healer is almost finished,” she said. “Your presence should not interrupt the process. Please be quiet until he completes the ritual.”

This day just kept getting weirder and weirder Tommy mused, but he slipped inside (with a flirtatious smile on offer, because hey, no point burning a perfectly pretty bridge) without protest, straightening as the tent flap fell shut behind him…

…and blinking around at what felt like a whole new world.

The yurt wasn’t _huge_ , but it felt roomy. Mostly thanks to its high ceiling, Tommy figured, naked pine beams providing the structure of the dome. Its canvas walls were white—opaque, but just thin enough to let in plenty of light. Beams of sunlight chased each other across a surprisingly nice temporary wooden floor, rainbows cast from the staggering number of crystals hanging in various compositions from suspended twigs, branches, and crudely shaped cages.

Tommy whistled, low. “What kind of crazy Blair Witch shit is this?” he muttered, quiet enough that only Teddy—Hulkling—looked over. The other boy was standing in the center of the room where a pile of furs had been placed on the ground. There were colorful chalk circles surrounding the mass, and _Billy_ was laying perfectly still in its center as a blond-haired boy rubbed another crystal all over his face.

This…

Huh.

He didn’t really have words for what this was.

Tommy drifted closer just as the unknown boy (the “healer”, judging by his heavy gold-and-black robes) pulled away with a quiet sigh. The boy sagged a little, murmuring his thanks when Teddy caught his elbow. “It is…finished,” he murmured in an accent so ridiculously posh it practically kicked Tommy in the teeth and stole his lunch money. “With a little rest, Wiccan will be fine.”

“We give you our most fervent thanks, Healer Elixir,” Hulkling said, helping the healer to a small stool even as Wiccan sat up, one hand gingerly touching his forehead. “Are you certain you will not take payment?”

Elixir waved the words off with a tired smile. He was human ( _playing a human_ , Tommy corrected himself, catching his imagination before it got way too fucking enrolled in this shit) and handsome, if a little fox-faced for Tommy’s taste. Richly dressed, though there was tell-tale wear and tear about his fine robes, as if he’d been wearing the same set ragged for months. There were even subtle shadows beneath his eyes, though from here he couldn’t tell if those were thanks to makeup or genetics.

Either way, he embodied the _world-weary cleric_ thing pretty damn well. “After the boon you and your bond-mate provided,” Elixir said, pointedly ignoring the flush that heated Wiccan’s cheeks at the words, “your money is no good here. Just _please_ do me a favor and keep each other safe.” He looked between them, blue eyes bright, before refocusing on Hulkling—one hand reaching out to touch his green arm. “I’d prefer not to risk the odds of another resurrection.”

_Resurrection?_

Wiccan climbed to his feet, also a little wobbly. Hulkling was quick to go to _his_ aid, too, and Tommy bit the inside of his cheeks, wondering whether Billy (the little shit) was doing that on purpose. _Jealous much, B?_ he wondered. “No more resurrections,” he agreed, letting Hulkling wrap an arm around his waist to steady him. “We already made that vow to each other.”

“I seem to recall _no more close calls_ being included in the promise,” Hulkling said, one corner of his mouth lifting in a wry smile. “And yet here we are, begging Elixir’s services yet again.” He tipped his head toward Elixir as the healer slowly stood. “It seems my bond-mate has an unfortunate habit of throwing himself in the middle of battle without his shield to guard his back.”

“It seems _my_ b-bond-mate,” (Tommy rolled his eyes when Billy stumbled over the word), “is conveniently forgetting that he left the inn before the sun rose and was not there to guard anything.”

Elixir held up his hands, laughing. “I know well when an argument is not mine to witness,” he teased. “You may stay in our haven for as long as you need to recover; Wolfsbane will let you know if the space is required. Until then—be safe, both of you.” He gave a little bow, hands folded in a weird way Tommy didn’t recognize; Hulkling instantly bowed back, hands folded the same way. Then they both straightened and Elixir headed toward the exit, glancing briefly at Tommy before slipping outside again…leaving the three of them alone.

Billy leaned around Hulkling, catching his eye. “What are you doing here?” he asked, voice subtly changing from _Wiccan_ to _Billy_. He started to scoot around Hulkling (who was also relaxing back into Teddy, as if someone had whispered “ _aannnnnnnd SCENE!_ ” the moment Elixir departed), but really, now that Tommy had assured himself that Teddy was a decent enough guy for his twin…wasn’t it about time to start _helping_ Billy seal the deal?

“Good sir!” he said, probably a little too loudly if Billy and Teddy’s surprised flinches were anything to go by. “Please do not trouble, uh, thyself! For you look weak and ready to keel ass-over-tits at any moment!”

Billy blinked rapidly, clearly not getting with the program, like, at all. Teddy looked just as confused, glancing at Billy before looking at Tommy again.

Ugh. Idiots. He advanced toward them. “You willeth surely fall if your strapping, uh, friend,” he would do a lot for his brother, but he was _not_ saying bond-mate with a straight face, “doth not lend a sturdy arm.”

“Of course,” Hulkling said immediately, arm sliding around Billy’s waist again. At least _he_ was quick on the draw; Billy still looked somewhere between confused and constipated. “You should have told me you were still feeling weak.”

“Uh,” Billy said, then seemed to shake it off, slipping back into Wiccan the way Tommy had hoped he would. “It is nothing to be concerned with,” Wiccan assured them both. “It’ll take more than some goblin to bring me low.”

_Hey,_ Tommy wanted to protest, monster camp pride rankling at the words. _We could have totally kicked your stupid wizard ass._ But he wasn’t a goblin right now; he was Sir Speed. And apparently Sir Speed was really good at stating the obvious. “You should sit before you fall,” he said, pointing to a comfortable-looking padded bench at the far end of the yurt. “There. You mayeth recline thyself there. Hulkling will carry you.”

He could tell the moment Billy caught on to what he was doing, those dark eyes bugging out at Tommy. Hulkling, however, was all kinds of gentleman (gentleorc?) He bent a little, grip tightening around Billy’s waist, and caught behind his knees, lifting him into a total princess carry. Billy’s arms flailed once before going around Teddy’s neck, and he was _so_ red it looked like his head might go popping right off. He shot Tommy a glare over Teddy’s big shoulder as he was obediently carried over to the bench…but Tommy caught the way his palm hesitantly curled around the back of Teddy’s neck, thumb brushing against his hair.

_Too easy_ , Tommy thought smugly, arms crossing. He was really the best brother of all time.


	12. Billy

Tommy was really the worst brother of all time.

 _What are you doing????_ Billy tried to telegraph with his eyes as Teddy—in full Hulkling mode—settled him on one of the benches. It had been converted as part of the healing tent, tasseled pillows a little ridiculously out of place considering the rough time period their fantasy world was emulating, but certainly appreciated. Especially when Hulkling began piling them behind Billy, the worry clear on his face.

It always felt a little weird, whenever someone else was dedicated to a scene you couldn’t (for whatever reason) seem to grab hold of. Honestly, if Tommy weren’t there, Billy would be eating this up. It satisfied every single H/C instinct in his nerdy little heart to have this big, brawny warrior fussing so earnestly over him. (All they needed was for Teddy to start gently mopping his brow as Billy coughed delicately into his fist and they’d succeed in making one of his most vivid childhood dreams come true.)

But with _Tommy_ hovering over Hulkling’s shoulder, brows bouncing playfully, it was…

It…

It all felt a little silly, actually. And that made Billy wish he could throw fireballs for real.

“He looketh rather pale,” Tommy said, grin just growing and growing. “You should mop his manly brow.”

 _“Stop,”_ Billy mouthed when Hulkling turned to look through the chest of potions and healing draughts. “ _What are you even doing, you asshole?”_

Tommy’s shit-eating smile only grew—if that was even possible. _“I’m helping,”_ he mouthed back. _“Remember?”_

Billy _did_ remember, and in retrospect, he couldn’t believe he’d ever thought this was a good idea. Obviously Tommy wasn’t going to take any of this seriously. He was out here to have a good time, a few laughs; he didn’t actually care whether Teddy… Whether…

He had to shove away the hot ball of tension building in his chest, eyes narrowed into slits. _“Well stop_ ,” he mouthed. _“You’re just going to mess things up._ ” And fuck, but he couldn’t allow that to happen. This was their last time here, as Hulkling-and-Wiccan. This was his last chance to be this character he loved so much. His last chance to look up into a green face and feel…hope and joy and endless anxious nervous energy fizzing up inside of him.

Even if the relationship between Hulkling and Wiccan never made its way into real life, at least he’d have been able to have this to remember. All his life. Probably even longer.

 _I wish I’d never agreed to let him come along,_ Billy thought, feeling defeated—just as Tommy stepped forward and caught Hulkling’s arm.

“Sir Hulkling,” he said, voice pitched a little lower, carrying less pompous brass than before. “Please doth tell me the two of you do not plan to sleepeth in the inn tonight.”

Hulkling looked up, a glass phial of blue liquid in his hands. He tipped his head. “I had not thought otherwise,” he said in a low rumble. “Why do you ask?”

Tommy cast a quick, darting glance toward Billy. “I shalt confess, I have it on good authority that there will be-eth another raid,” he said with complete conviction—suddenly so earnest, so deadly serious, that gooseflesh worked its way down Billy’s arms. It was strange; he almost didn’t recognize his own twin for a moment, Tommy losing himself deliberately and for the very first time in his courtly character. “The inn wilst not be safe, and with Wiccan recovering so from such grave injuries…”

“I’m fine,” Billy said immediately, leaning over to snatch the phial from Hulkling’s hand. He thumbed open the stopper and drank the whole thing in two swallows, wincing at the sickly-sweet taste. Mmm, blue raspberry Kool-Aid. “See? I had a healer _and_ a health draught. In a second, I’ll be heartier than the two of you combined.”

“Better not to risketh it,” Tommy countered—still grave, still serious, as if he knew something they didn’t. Which, all right, maybe that was true, considering he was part of Monster Camp, but Billy had gotten good at smelling bullshit over the years, and Tommy was practically rolling around in it. “Thou shoult find somewhere else to stayeth the night, far away from danger. But where couldst thou possibly go?”

He tapped his lips with one finger, pretending to think.

“There is a place I know,” Hulkling began slowly, thoughtfully, because Teddy was nothing if not an excellent roleplayer, willing to _yes and_ his way through any scene. “We could set up camp far away from the chaos. I would not like hiding from our enemy, though.”

Billy had his mouth open to agree, but Tommy was faster. “No, of course not,” he said quickly, “but I shalt naturally take it upon myself to warneth the others. And when Wiccan hast fully healed from his wounds, the two of you canst wadeth bravely into battle and, uh, dealeth with what remains.”

Hulkling glanced his way, and Billy quickly schooled his face before he could see the mistrustful scowl. What was Tommy up to? “Do you think it best, Wiccan?” Hulkling asked. “I can have our things ready within the quarter-hour.”

He wanted to protest that this was ridiculous—that Tommy was just toying with them—but at the same time… Well. If they stayed in the inn another night, then they’d be in different bunks, possibly even in different rooms, depending on what space was available when they checked in. But if they grabbed one of the tents and made their way out into the forest, it would just be _them_. The two of them, alone beneath the waiting stars and moon. Sharing a (fake) campfire. Sharing a tent. Lying side by side through the long night, each breath falling in steady syncopated rhythm.

Yeah. Yeah, he wanted that. Wanted it enough that he relaxed back against the pillows and gave a delicate cough into his fist.

Behind Hulkling’s shoulder, Tommy flashed a grin and two thumbs up.

Hulkling—because he was wonderful—reached up to brush back Billy’s hair. The gesture was so infinitely gentle, tender, that it had Billy’s toes curling in his boots. “You stay here and recover,” Hulkling murmured, the quiet intensity behind his words enough to send an electric thrill through Billy. “I will retrieve our things. When I return, with luck, you will be strong enough to make the journey.”

“I will always be strong enough when you’re by my side,” Wiccan said.

Sir Speed made a low, barely audible gagging noise.

Hulkling smiled and rose to his full height. He looked down at Wiccan for a long, long minute (or perhaps it simply felt like tumbling head-first into forever) before turning the full weight of his attention on Speed. His eyes narrowed as he moved deliberately into the other man’s space—herding him back one step, two, as all the gentleness inside him melted away, leaving behind nothing but raw power.

 _Focus_.

“You will watch over Wiccan while I am gone,” Hulkling said. There was no question there—no request. This was an order he expected to be followed, the threat underlining each word ringing with the promise of steel. “You will make certain no harm comes to him.”

Speed visibly swallowed. “And if something does happen?” he asked, accent slipping a little. His hip hit one of the little tables covered in vials and crushed herbs, and he grabbed back for it to steady himself. Twin spots of color deepened on his cheeks.

Hulkling cocked his head, _towering_ over Speed: a solid mass of green muscle and leather and barely restrained violence. “If you fail me,” he said, the oath of vengeance ringing clear in his voice, “if you fail Wiccan, I will spend the rest of my life tracking you down. I will hunt you to the gates of the void itself, and drag you through its fiery pits. You will never know a single moment’s peace should you allow anything to happen to my bondmate. Do you understand me?”

Speed simply nodded jerkily, eyes _huge_.

The barbarian did not move for another long moment, _glaring_ Speed down. And then he turned and strode away, hefting his massive sword as he went: bared muscles along his back rippling with the motion.

The urt door fluttered closed behind him. Wiccan and Speed were alone.

A charged moment of silence passed before Tommy let out a whooshing breath. “ _Holy shit_ ,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I swear, Billy, if you don’t jump his bones, _I’m_ going to slap on your tiara and try it myself.”

Billy pushed himself up to glare at his brother. “Don’t you _dare_ ,” he snapped.

Tommy just waved that away. “All right, not really,” he agreed. “I wouldn’t do that to you. But Billy… _holy shit_ your fake boyfriend is _hot_.” He laughed, fanning a hand to cool his flushed cheeks as he turned back to Billy. “This weekend has been a real eye-opener. I am learning a _lot_ about myself and my apparent thing for snarly people in leather.”

“Gross,” Billy said, even though…yeah, okay, he totally got it. Hulkling—Teddy—was especially good at that kind of intense badass warrior thing when he wanted to be. And there was no denying the leather suited him, um, _really well._ “I don’t need to hear about your weird kinks.”

“Excuse me,” Tommy shot back. “Do you want to say that any louder, Mr. Pot? I don’t think Mr. Kettle heard you.”

He stood, reaching up to tug his cape into place. He really was an absolute mess this morning. “I think Mr. Kiss My Ass heard me just fine,” he said. Then, “Speaking of, what were you even _doing_?”

Tommy rolled his eyes, seemingly recovered from his swoon or whatever. “Helping you, dumbass,” he said. “Like I said I would. I mean, given, this is harder to do than I expected…but I feel like I did a pretty good job thinking on the fly. You’re going to be spending the night _alone_ with him, right?”

Billy hated how hot his cheeks felt at that thought. “Well, sure,” he said. “But is it really helping if you’re so freaking obvious about it?”

“I don’t know,” Tommy said. “Why don’t you tell me tomorrow _after_ your private sleepover? You’re going to actually make a move while you’ve got his undivided attention, right?” he added. “I don’t have to climb up into any trees and feed you lines or anything, do I?”

“Please don’t do that,” Billy said, horrified.

Tommy just flapped a hand at him. “I won’t,” he promised. “I have better things to do. Like this whole monster camp thing—you know, it’s actually more fun than I thought it would be? I guess you guys aren’t complete losers for being so into this.”

Despite himself, Billy began to smile. “Yeah?” he said. “Somehow I knew you’d be into LARPing if you ever gave it a real chance.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m _into LARPing_ ,” Tommy corrected him quickly. “I’m just…finding it’s not quite as dumb as I always assumed it’d be. You know, running around the woods hitting people over the head with swords is a pretty sweet way to spend the weekend.”

Billy cocked his head. “You’re not actually hitting anyone _over the head_ , are you?” he asked. He _had_ to ask. There were rules for a reason. “You’re not supposed to engage in anything beyond the safe zone of—”

Tommy waved away his words. “I have to listen to David and Peggy and Steve and all of them about rules and shit,” he said. “I am _not_ listening to you too. Especially since it turns out you’re not even very good at this. How’d you let our sneak attack almost kill you like that?”

“Hey!” Billy protested—but he was laughing, because there was some truth in that. “I was asleep. _Most_ of us were asleep. We may play all-powerful whatevers, but we’re still just a bunch of teenagers in capes.” Wiccan would always be smarter than him, stronger than him, more confident than him. It was the name of the game.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t have some of that strength and confidence rub off on him, though.

“Anyway,” Billy added before Tommy could make some kind of crack, “if I promise not to interfere with rules-quoting, will you promise to back off on the, uh, helping? I think…” How to even say this? He lowered his voice, casting a quick glance toward the tent flap. “I think maybe I’ve actually got this on my own.” And more importantly, “I think I want to _do this_ on my own. I mean, thanks for the assist with the tents,” Billy had to admit. “That’s going to be pretty clutch, but _in general_ …”

“Aw,” Tommy said, reaching out and ruffling Billy’s hair like the asshole he was. “Is my nerdy little brother finally growing up?”

Billy swatted his hand away, too slow to actually catch him. “I’m not your _little_ anything,” he said.

Tommy just grinned, big and bright and…maybe a little less mocking than Billy had expected. Like he really was happy for Billy. Like he was maybe kinda sorta proud.

Of course, Tommy—being Tommy—immediately ruined any sort of brotherly bonding by saying, “So I know you’ve got pouches of birdseed and whatever, but do any of those spells magically create a condom?” and Billy was forced to take a mostly playful swing at him—the two of them laughing and tussling the way only brothers could, a bright happiness blooming brighter and brighter inside of Billy’s chest as one thought kept circling around his head:

 _Tonight_ , he thought, trying to grab his stupid brother around the neck. _Something’s going to finally happen tonight._

It had to, after all: it was the last chance they _had_.


	13. Kate

“All right,” Kate said, perched up high where she could take occasional pot-shots at anyone dumb enough to wander by, “what’s our plan?”

Clint didn’t look over. Of course, Clint didn’t need to look over. They’d perfected the art of fighting back-to-back while balanced precariously up high—this time, on top of one of the cabins. Steve would have a fit if he saw them up here (again), but he was usually so busy that it took him awhile to even notice.

“Huh?” Clint said, taking careful aim as an unwitting PC skirted just a hair too close. “Oh, hey, looks like that one’s got some loot on him.”

She couldn’t _not_ swerve to take a look—loot was a siren call she was in no way prepared to ignore—but she didn’t let herself get distracted, either. Multi-tasking: she was great at that, at least in theory. “I don’t mean for now—though, yes, take the shot,” Kate added. “I _mean_ for the game in general. What’s our plan?”

He actually lowered his bow at that, losing the chance to score a hit as he swerved to stare at her. It was funny; she was so used to seeing him in costume and makeup that it didn’t feel strange at all. It was _weirder_ seeing him in his civvies, sucking face with his boyfriend any chance he got. “Are we talking OOC now?” he asked.

Kate shot him a flat look. “What do you think, Clint?”

“I think we’re not supposed to break character out on the field, _Hawkeye,_ ” he said stubbornly…but he didn’t turn back to his perch, Kate was pleased to notice. Which meant that even if he was planning on giving her hell for it, at least he was open to the conversation.

It was a start.

“Do the rules really apply if there’s no one there to enforce them?” She arched a challenging brow with the question, darting Clint to argue. Because even if Steve and Bucky and Peggy and all the rest of the mod team were still technically in place, they were _disbanding_. They were ending this. They were walking away from the best thing in any of their lives right now, and Kate was damned if she was going to just lay back and passively accept that.

The way she saw it, the moment Steve Rogers waved the white flag, he stopped being _Cap_ and stopped being able to call the shots.

Clint made an uncomfortable face, actually setting his bow completely aside as he settled in to face her. That, more than anything, told Kate just how seriously Clint was taking this. And yet: “Steve’s still our leader,” he said stubbornly. “Even if he has to step away for a while.”

“ _Has_ to?” she countered, fast. “Do we really think he _has_ _to_ leave us high and dry? Do we think he _has to_ abandon us?”

“We don’t know the whole story.” Clint crossed his arms, going for casual, but she knew his tells. He was feeling defensive. _Protective_. Of Steve? Why? Outside of his role as their DM, they barely knew him; that was all part of keeping that line between IC and OOC.

…or, at least, _she_ barely knew him. Clint… Was it possible Clint was closer to the mod crew than she knew? They talked about a hell of a lot, sure, but they did try to keep those lines from getting too blurry. She knew more about Clint (and Billy) than she knew about any of the others, but who else he hung out with, who he and Phil spent their time with on the weekends, who else he considered _friend_? All that was packed away in a box neatly labeled _None Of My Business_.

But the small signs were there. The way he shifted uncomfortably. The set of his jaw, like he was getting ready for a fight. The empathy in his voice when he said those words: _we don’t know the whole story._ Maybe, just maybe, that “we” was a lie.

She considered her options, weighed the outcomes, and went for the jugular.

“You’re holding back on me again,” Kate said, shifting into a confrontational tone. She pinned him with her stare, daring him to deny it. Whether or not they shared all the details of their lives outside this place, when they were _here_ , there were no secrets between them…and the lines between IC and OOC had never been blurrier. “You know _exactly_ why they’re disbanding. You’re just not telling me.”

He flushed, but it was angry rather than guilty, which soothed her own ruffled feathers a little. “I don’t lie to you, Katie,” Clint snapped, a little louder than their hidden perch demanded. “No, I don’t tell you everything—and yeah, I know what you’re suggesting, and _yeah_ , I do hang out with Steve and Tony and Bucky and the rest of them back IRL—but I don’t _lie._ ”

“So you _do_ know at least part of the story?” she countered.

“…part of it,” Clint conceded, some of that flash of anger fading. He was like that, she knew, emotions shifting like running water. “Enough to realize it’s personal, and it’s not something he decided lightly, and it’s not something I’m going to let anyone pressure him about.” There was that protective flare again, familiar enough to make her own anger melt. Clint was…God, what was that term her grandmother used to say?

Oh, right. Clint was _a good egg_. He’d risen to her defense enough times over their partnership (friendship) that she’d come to recognize that particular glint in his eye from a mile away.

Which changed things. It made it easier to let go of some of her bitterness toward Steve and the rest of the mod team and try to look at this another way.

“All right,” Kate said, deliberately letting her shoulders round forward. Visibly letting down her guard, so Clint—who could read her just as well as she could read him—would know she wasn’t going to push it any farther. “I understand. Life…gets complicated. And God knows running this place and the rest of us must feel like a ten-ton weight around the neck.”

“Make it twenty-ton,” Clint said, beginning to smile a little. Forgiven and forgotten. “It’s a marvel they all made it this long. Maybe running this place wasn’t meant to be a long-term thing.”

Kate opened her mouth to reply…then paused.

Cocked her head.

Considered.

The funny thing about Steve’s rein here was that he’d taken over so completely, and done such a _good job_ of keeping things moving smoothly, that it’d looked effortless. Eternal. He’d given every sign of being able to stand guard over them _forever_ , but…that wasn’t usually the case, was it? Yeah, okay, official LARPs like this one were actually “owned” by someone and had to be bought and sold to pass the baton, so the baton (when it landed in capable hands) didn’t pass all that often, but…

But maybe there was an easy solution here. One that would give Steve and co. the rest they needed without having to disband the entire group and shake up the momentum they already had. Maybe even a way they could come _back_ now and again to lead campaigns without making running this thing their full-time jobs.

Maybe there was a solution that could let a network of mods flow in and out and still keep the heart and soul of the story they’d all built alive.

“Uh-oh,” Clint said, interrupting the flow of her thoughts. “It’s never a good sign when you look _that_ contemplative.”

“Hush up, you,” Kate said, shifting to fondly kick at his thigh. He didn’t bother moving away, taking the gentle nudge with good spirits. “I was just thinking: even if the Avengers,” the fond nickname they’d given the mod team, “have to disband…maybe that’s not the end. Maybe there can be other Avengers.”

He made a dubious face. “New management?” Usually when the game shifted hands, there were changes; the game never felt the same. Even though no one wanted this to end, no one really wanted _that_ either.

“Not exactly,” Kate said, mind still spinning through the possibilities. Money wasn’t the problem. Talent wasn’t even the problem. And she had a hunch there were people willing to step forward if needed. The problem was that no one wanted to replace Steve, but if no one was _replacing_ him…if they found a way to make the “Avengers” a concept rather than a fond nickname for a small group of people…

She stood, slinging her bow over her shoulder. “Cover me,” Kate said, heading to the lip of the roof and crouching as she prepared to jump down. “I need to get to neutral territory.”

“Why?” Clint asked, dubious, even as he obligingly shifted and lifted his bow to give her cover. He really was the best partner a girl could ask for.

Kate cast him a glance over her shoulder, iridescent feathers lifting in the breeze to tickle her cheek. “Gotta make a call to my lawyer,” she said as mysteriously as she could—then, laughing at his irritated noise, she dropped down from the roof and loped off toward the Hail Mary that could save them all.


	14. Steve

“Well,” Steve said, surveying the smoking remains of what was supposed to be this weekend’s Big Bad. “Dang.”

A few paces away, hands on his hips and brows pulled together into a peeved frown, Tony looked up with a startled laugh. “ _Dang_?” he echoed in gentle mockery. (Not that it hadn’t taken Steve months and months of working with the other boy to realize he was capable of a gentle _anything_.) “Thanos is in a heaping ruin and all you’ve got to say for it is _dang_?”

“Tony,” Bucky said warningly— _he_ still wasn’t great at parsing out Tony’s various, shifting moods.

Steve simply held up a hand. “Would it make you feel better if I said something stronger?” he asked.

Sitting on a carved-out log next to Bruce, her arms crossed, Shuri snorted. “I don’t know about him, but a good _fuck_ could make my day.”

“I dunno,” Bruce added. He scratched the back of his head with smoke-blackened fingers. “This wasn’t so bad; I’d settle for a hearty _damn_.”

“Shitburgers?”

“Crapsicles.”

Tony snapped his fingers three times rapidly in a row. “Children, children, please,” he said. “As Steve’s best friend—”

“You’re not his best anything,” Bucky muttered beneath his breath, crossing his own arms.

“—I’m the one who gets to decide.” He made a show of turning back to Steve, cupping his chin as he studied him from head to foot. “Hmm,” Tony said, pretending to think it through. “ _Hmmm_.”

Steve refrained from rolling his eyes only because…well, he’d been putting up with this for about as long as he’d been in charge. Longer, if you counted the time leading up to him becoming DM, back when he was just playing the Captain as a PC—back when things were much, much simpler. “How about you decide on the invectives later,” he said, “and fill me in on what happened now. I take it Thanos is well and truly beyond repair?”

Bruce looked up, his expression sheepish. “Sorry, Cap,” he said. “We thought we could get it to work, but…”

“But these two kept getting in my way,” Shuri added. “If they’d cleared off like I _told_ them to, I’d have Thanos up and ready for the first attack in under an hour.”

Tony shot her a look. “Harsh,” he said, then cocked his head. “But fair. If I could get back to my lab and return with parts in time…” He trailed off, squinting toward where Manhattan lay miles and miles in the distance, lost behind the winding Hudson and rolling hills of Westchester. “Hmm.”

“Out of the question,” Steve decided before Tony could go vaulting for the parking lot. Even if he broke all land-speed records (which he _would_ , if only to prove a point), he still wouldn’t be back with the parts in time—not if they wanted to keep to the schedule he, Peggy, Bucky and Sam had set.

And considering they wanted this final weekend to go off without a hitch, they needed to keep to the _dang_ schedule.

“Well,” he added, looking at the smoking remains of the mechanical dragon that was supposed to be terrorizing the PCs within the hour (and through the night, each attack more brutal than the last, leading to the epic finale). “It looks like it’s time for Plan B.”

“I have a feeling Tony hears _that_ a lot,” Shuri said to Bruce in a carrying whisper.

Steve ignored them. He turned to Bucky, who was already looking at him—arms uncrossed again, eyes dark, expression…blank.

_Damn_ , Steve thought—then, because that wasn’t strong enough: _fuck._ “Bucky,” he began.

“Is it time for the Winter Soldier?” Bucky asked. Even though Steve had known him—had been best friends with him—since they were children, it was impossible to read any inflection in his voice.

Steve glanced back toward the others, then at Bucky again, his stomach churning miserably. There were other options. There were _always_ other options. “No,” he decided, reaching out to clasp Bucky’s shoulder. He squeezed tight. “We’ll figure out something else.”

Bucky caught his wrist, fingers curling tight yet still somehow gentle. The frozen mask of his expression seemed to thaw, the smallest of smiles there and gone again in a moment. “Don’t be stupid, Steve,” he said, voice rough but threaded through with palpable fondness. “I…”

He paused, hesitated, gaze flicking toward where Tony, Shuri, and Bruce weren’t even pretended not to be listening. Bucky let out a breath and stepped away, dropping his grip; Steve could still feel the hot burn of his fingers, lingering as if branded against his skin. “Walk with me,” Bucky said curtly before turning on his heel and striding away.

Steve looked toward the trio of techies, briefly torn. Tony shrugged in response. “I could still go get the parts,” he offered. In other words, he could race his way back to the city at dangerous speeds, all on the chance that Thanos could come together in the end.

“No,” Steve decided, though it cost him more than he wanted to admit. “But thank you. All of you. I know how hard you worked to make this happen.”

“Thanks, Cap,” Bruce said, taking off his glasses and rubbing at his eyes. He looked exhausted; they all looked exhausted. As much as the three of them hated to admit defeat, Steve knew that letting this go would be the best call. (Just as he knew the three of them would put their heads together after this weekend and make the mechanical dragon work after all, if only to prove that they could.) “We appreciate it.”

Shuri blew out a breath. “Yeah,” she said, then tilted her head. “Also? Thanos is a dick.”

That startled Steve into a laugh. “Well,” he agreed, thinking back to the careful character sheet and spell list that would have razed the village to the ground, “I can’t disagree with you there.” Then with a parting smile, he turned and trotted to catch up with Bucky, reaching him just as he was stepping into the woods that marked the official park property. (The Thanos project, of course, kept well away from where the PCs were likely to be exploring in order to maintain the surprise.)

They walked together, shoulder-to-shoulder, for a few moments in silence. It was the comfortable sort of silence born out of years of long friendship. The sort of silence that could stretch for hours as they lounged about on steaming-hot front stoops, wilting under the summer heat and trading back and forth old comic books. Things had been so simple back then. They’d been poor as hell, but too young to really know what that meant except at the height of winter or summer. Close enough that it wasn’t unusual to catch them sneaking out windows and across fire escapes to each others’ rooms at all hours of the night.

Trusting enough to sleep curled around each other like quotation marks, without a second’s thought about what people may say.

Now, trudging together through this forest they’d come to call their own (Cap and Bucky and the Howling Commandos making hell for anyone who thought to do harm; the very best paladin duo the game had ever seen, if only because they knew each other so well that words hardly mattered), there was a different sort of weight to the silence. A cautious, uncertain hesitation that Steve didn’t like but had no idea how to counter.

He tried anyway.

“Bucky,” he said, quiet. “I know you think you’re doing me a favor here, but it won’t do either of us any good if playing the Winter Soldier…” The words seemed to fade as he struggled to figure out how to finish that.

Bucky just laughed—a sharp, tight sound that gave far too much away. “If playing the Winter Soldier gets in my head again?” he said, dark enough to send a chill down Steve’s spine. Bucky chased away that spark of worry by shooting him a sidelong glance, teeth flashing in the darkness with a smile that almost seemed perfectly genuine. “Don’t worry about it. I can handle a day and a half in his headspace.”

“I don’t want you to have to _handle_ anything,” Steve pointed out—then caught at Bucky’s arm when his best friend made as if to blow that off, trying to jerk him to a stop.

It was ridiculous, of course; they both knew Steve (all 100 pounds or so of him) would never be able to physically stop Bucky from doing anything. But Bucky stopped immediately, the way he always did, and let Steve gently reel him back to face him.

Dark hair fell in a messy tangle in front of his face. His eyes kept dipping down—a clear sign this was bothering him a hell of a lot more than he wanted to let on. Bucky wet his bottom lip, tongue darting out shockingly pink and wet, there and gone again in a moment. But he stayed, and he faced Steve, and he took him _seriously_ , the way he always had.

“Bucky,” Steve said. He gave in to overwhelming impulse and reached up to brush back Bucky’s hair. Bucky’s lashes flickered as he instantly met Steve’s eyes, a question there that Steve wasn’t yet ready to answer.

He let his hand fall away. But he didn’t give in. “Bucky,” Steve said again, doggedly avoiding the palpable tension between them, “I want this to be the best finale we can make it, but I’m not willing to sacrifice my best friend to do it. There’s another way.”

Bucky made a low, frustrated noise, deliberately shaking his hair back into his face. “Yeah?” he demanded, crossing his arms mulishly. Even though they both knew Steve could out-stubborn anyone, he always gave it his best sullen shot. “And who exactly do you plan to pull out of your skinny ass at the last minute? Loki’s not here. Ultron was totally a bust last time. And that Hydra shit never really worked, no matter how many faces you tried to turn heel. The Winter Soldier’s the best thing we’ve got to a big bad, unless you planned on wriggling into your armor and taking a turn at it yourself.”

Steve tilted his chin, jaw set, waiting.

Bucky, as always, didn’t make him wait for long. “You little,” Bucky began, startled, then immediately began shaking his head. “No. No, Steve. C’mon. You can’t do that.”

“It’s as fitting a send-off as any,” Steve said, crossing his own arms to weather the blustering storm he knew was coming. Bucky—like the rest of the really old-timers—was protective of the memory of the paladin Steve used to play. He was woven into the history of the game itself: lost to an ice dragon, sacrificing himself to save the rest of the then-dwindling crew. Peggy and the others sometimes still revived their old characters and spread stories about the great hero so few remembered by name anymore, and the legend grew and grew and grew until sometimes Steve himself forgot _he_ used to be that person. _He_ was the one who died without the hope of resurrection; _he_ had let himself be frozen and lost to time just as he moved into being their DM for good.

But the funny thing about legends was that they were impossible to control, and people sometimes whispered that the Captain would come _back_. Ridiculous speculation, of course; Steve never planned on reviving characters long lost, especially after the Winter Soldier had his epic fall, and yet…

_And yet_ there was nothing keeping him from reviving the Captain as another Hydra trick, just to give the others one last visceral shock before the end.

Which, by the way, “Hydra totally worked,” he said, trying to smile. “They created you and now they created me.”

“ _No_ ,” Bucky said, more heated than (clearly) either of them expected. He drew in a sharp puff of breath, giving himself a moment to cool his jets before trying again—one hand dragging through his messy hair. “Stevie, no. C’mon. We can’t take the Captain from them. He’s a hero.”

“So are they,” Steve said, “and they deserve a memorable villain for their last time out. If I’m going to be taking this whole game away from them—” and _God_ but that made him feel sick inside “—then I’m going to at least make sure it ends in a way they feel good about.”

Bucky just shook his head. “They won’t feel good about the Captain coming back from the dead, only to turn on them,” he said. “They won’t feel good thinking he’s been corrupted by Hydra, or that everything they knew about him, loved about him, has become all twisted up. And you know what?” he continued before Steve could say anything more. “Neither would I.”

That brought Steve up immediately, his brows snapping together in instant concern. “Bucky,” he said, reaching for his best friend’s shoulder. He gave it a faint squeeze, trying to telegraph…he didn’t even know what. He just knew he needed to comfort Bucky somehow. “What are you saying?”

Bucky’s eyes were dark as they fixed on him. He leaned subtly into Steve’s grip. “I’m saying it’d break my heart to see the Captain’s memory tarnished like that,” he said quietly. “Please, Steve. Let me do this. I _want_ to be the Winter Soldier. I want him to come back, and fight, and die—so I can put _him_ behind me, too. If this is going to be the last time,” and God but it made Steve’s heart squeeze tight to hear those words coming from Bucky’s mouth, “then I want the chance to kick that shadow to the curb for good this time. It’ll be, whaddayacallit, cathartic or something.”

Cathartic.

Steve took a deep breath, gripping Bucky’s shoulder tight as he studied his face. It was as familiar to him as his own—more deeply loved than anything else in the world—and while he’d thought he’d known just how badly the whole loss of the Captain and the Winter Soldier introduction had weighed on him, he was just now beginning to realize…he didn’t know the half of it.

_It’d break my heart._

“Okay, Bucky,” Steve said quietly. He gave Bucky’s shoulder a final firm squeeze before letting go, hand dropping to his side—where his fingers curled reflexively, trapping in the lingering heat of Bucky’s body. “I’ll follow your lead here. If you want to bring back the Winter Soldier—and make sure he’s defeated for good, this time—then that’s what we’ll do.”

Bucky’s smile didn’t fully touch his eyes, but his shoulders visibly relaxed. This would be hard on him—revisiting a time that had been darker than either of them had ever wanted—but it really did look like it might also be a blessing in disguise. A way to shed old skins as they moved forward with their lives. “I want to,” he confirmed, jaw set. “I’m choosing to.”

The magic words. Steve gave a short nod, mind already working, filling in the details. They’d need to loop in Sam and Peggy right away. Get the rest of monster camp up and running. Thread rumors and fears through the village, and start a systematic hunt of key PCs that would get the rest of them up in arms.

If plotted right, this could be enough to bring the whole lot of them together: a single unit intent on revenge against the Winter Soldier who had once killed so many of their friends. This could be enough to give closure, and a sense of victory—and, at last, peace.

This weekend would be the exclamation point on years of work and effort and heart…assuming they all made it to the other side.


End file.
